


You Can Go Faster, Crowley- and other tumblr prompts

by Justkeeptrekkin



Series: Ineffable Husbands prompts (justkeeptrekkin) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: A selection of tumblr fic prompts (justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com) uploaded to AO3 by popular demand.





	1. You Can Go Faster, Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! By popular demand, I have added my prompts to AO3! each chapter is a different prompt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley accidentally admits he loves Aziraphale mid rant. Cue meltdown. 
> 
> My first and most popular ineffable husbands prompt! The original post is [ here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/186140763755/prompt-crowely-tells-az-he-loves-him-by-accident?is_related_post=1)

“See, thing is-”

Crowley’s words elude him- as they have a habit of doing, the sneaky buggers. He watches the white lines in the middle of the road streak by, feels the tarmac roaring beneath the car. It’s a rainy evening and they’re driving home from a restaurant north of Watford that Aziraphale has been banging on about for months. Since the world had ended- and then promptly not ended- the angel’s zest for food hasn’t lessened in the slightest. In fact, it’s only gotten bloody zestier, as if their near-apocalypse experience has made Aziraphale realise that life is too short. Even an immortal life such as his. 

Crowley loses his track of his thought entirely. “Thing is…”

“You were talking about-”

“KINDLES!” Crowley exclaims, taking his hands off the wheel to celebrate this eureka moment. Aziraphale straightens out beside him nervously and grabs a fistful of his corduroy trousers. Crowley slaps the leather of the steering wheel enthusiastically as he continues, “Kindles. Are not. Demonic! We didn’t come up with them- that was all you, I’m certain!”

“Why on earth would I invent the Kindle, dear boy? Do you even know me at all?”

“You-plural, not you-singular. _Angels_ you, _Heaven_ you.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t sanction it.”

“Alright but- listen- what’s the problem with kindles? Why’re- what’s the problem? I mean really, it’s a book, isn’t it. Just a book on a screen. What’s the problem?”

“The problem-” Aziraphale begins confidently, bordering aggressively. Then the wind appears to be knocked out of his sails. “Well,” he tries again, a little weakly. “The problem, the problem lies therein. In that. Well-”

“See! See, it’s clearly a good thing, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about- all these people going ‘oh, ho-ho, oh dear, books aren’t physical anymore, what a travesty! Let’s all- grab our pitchforks! And lament the loss of our _children’s education_ ’.” He adds a mocking, whinging voice to this last bit. 

Aziraphale tuts, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them. 

“No, you’re _wildly_ misinterpreting the argument, Crowley.”

“You know it’s true, don’t deny it! People are only against them because humans don’t like change- they get all squirmy and anxious about it. As if, you know, as if the transition from a physical book to a little screen is the end of the world- and! Now that they’ve actually had a taste of the apocalypse, they really haven’t gained any more perspective, have they? I mean, you’d think they’d start worrying about global warming properly, but instead they’re just sad about kindles and- oh! That’s another thing, kindles aren’t paper! Less deforestation! Clearly- listen, come on, that’s got to be angelic work.”

Aziraphale pouts and averts his gaze, brows slightly raised in indignance. 

Crowley snorts. He notices the lines of the road streak by a little slower, presses down on the accelerator. 

“A _ha_!”

Crowley flicks his gaze over to Aziraphale, who’s turned his whole body towards him in his seat eagerly. A smug finger pointed in his face. 

“What? No,” Crowley shakes his head. “You- don’t try and argue with me on this, I’m absolutely certain-”

“Amazon! Kindles are owned by Amazon, _notoriously_ corrupt!”

Crowley scowls, rolls his head wearily. “No, angel, they weren’t always bad, we only got to them a couple of years ago. You can’t argue that-”

“Amazon. Invented. _Kindles_! Thereby, kindles are evil. The end, full stop. _Fin_.”

“That’s just- you’ve been around long enough to know that’s not how it works.”

“And you can’t honestly argue that books are bad just because they’re made of paper. Books are knowledge! Books are the weapons against the armies of ignorance! Righteous tools-”

“Righteous tools,” Crowley snorts.

“Against the dark forces of evil!”

“Not this bollocks again. Look, books are fine, books are all well and good, but not everyone’s into them, are they? Times are changing, angel, you can watch things like Netflix or whatever it’s called and, listen to podcasts and- the way people share knowledge is different now. Listen, I love knowledge, love the stuff. You know I do, I was the one who got Eve to eat the apple after all, but even then, even then I’ve never really read books, unless I really have to, the only reason I read _Pride and Prejudice_ is because I love you, and admittedly, yes, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever put myself through- actually, I think trying to read _A Tale of Two Cities_ was what really did it for me, Charles Dickens- Christ alive, did you ever run into Dickens, angel? Miserable sod.”

Crowley drums his fingers against the steering wheel expectantly. The road side lights cast an orange glow in the car- brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening as they drive past one after another. Aziraphale is silent. 

And it’s only then that Crowley realises his mistake. 

It dawns on him the way a glass fills up slowly with water in the washing up bowl and sinks to the bottom. Slowly, then a sinking feeling. And then hitting rock bottom. 

He keeps his eyes on the road. His fingers tight on the steering wheel. 

“You…”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t. Just don’t. Alright?”

“But Crowley-”

“I said _don’t_.”

Quiet fills the car. There isn’t even the sound of Freddie Mercury to assuage the nauseating pain in his stomach, the feeling of his throat closing like he’s having an allergic reaction. He wants to cry. He wants to cry for the first time in a very, very long time. He blinks away the feeling, and holds himself together with pure will power, just like he held together this car a few weeks back. 

Only, he’s been holding himself together for roughly six thousand years. It’s getting close to too much. His metaphorical knees are buckling. Atlas only wishes he were as resilient as Crowley. 

Aziraphale exhales- a long, shaky breath. Crowley doesn’t turn to look, can’t bear it. 

Besides, he’s known him- _loved_ him long enough that he can see him in his mind’s eye easily. Eyes sometimes dreamy, brows sometimes pulled together in concern. Lips sometimes twisted in disapproval, sometimes beaming with so much unreserved joy that Crowley has to tease him. Just so he doesn’t end up gazing, bathing in the brightness of that smile. 

And then Aziraphale huffs to himself- a determined little noise that sets Crowley on edge. And he’s already too close to the edge to handle. He’s only just got a hold of himself as it is, hands shaking on the wheels and knee bouncing. The threat of tears still there, threatening to make him choke on his breath- it gets stuck in his throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. So gently. 

That’s almost what does it- it’s almost what makes Crowley lose control, teeth grinding painfully and eyes stinging. The motorway stretching out in front of them, empty. Time stretching out even further. 

Then the angel speaks again. “You can go faster, Crowley.”

The words trickle through his brain slowly, like drops of water building at the rim of a tap. Then- _drip_. Understanding. Crowley’s throat clicks as he swallows, painfully. 

“That is- of course, only if you want to,” Aziraphale rushes, waves his hands desperately, “You can- drive- go- uh, you can go as slowly as you like, only, don’t feel obliged to go slowly on my account. Anymore.”

The angel clears his throat. And Crowley turns to look. 

He’s smiling. He looks absolutely bloody terrified, eyes a little wide and watery just like that day-

 _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

-except now he’s smiling. A quiet, wobbly smile to himself as he stares out of the rain streaked window. Crowley watches the way the orange street light passes through his silver hair, making it appear more like brass. He watches him bite his lip, then continue.

“We could. Oh, I don’t know. We could do that picnic we talked about. Or, perhaps a walk through Wimbledon Common. Together. Or.” He pauses. “Or, if you wanted to, you could drop me off and come in for a night cap. I have some rather nice port hiding somewhere in my office.”

Aziraphale turns to meet his eyes. A look filled with welcome and kindness and understanding. Light catching his face like a Vermeer painting. And Crowley lets himself stare. 

“Eyes on the road, my dear.”

He only realises that his mouth is hanging open when he tries to forumlate his next words. He shuts it, then says, “What?”

“Eyes on the road, Crowley. Before we both get discorporated.”

It takes another moment to register. But then his head snaps forwards and he looks ahead again, the road continuing into the dark towards London. He can feel all the air rush out of him like a balloon. And then something else replaces it- something lighter than air, something that makes his mind feel like it’s drifting to another plane. Something weightless. 

“Picnic,” Crowley eventually says, nodding to himself. He scratches his chin nervously. “Picnic then walk. Or, walk then picnic.”

Because- and Crowley can’t quite believe himself for this- he thinks a night cap might be a bit too fast for him. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. The word comes out in a whisper. “You can pick me up at midday tomorrow. If that’s-”

“That’s.” Crowley stalls. Nods his head compulsively like a nodding car-toy. “That’s. Yeah. Midday’s good. Midday it is.”

“Crowley?”

“Angel,” he replies seriously, business-like.

There’s a moment of hesitation. Aziraphale breathes deeply beside him, like a man stepping off the train from London to Cornwall, taking in the countryside air for the first time in years. 

“I do love you. An awful lot.”

Crowley continues to nod. But he can feel the facade slip. He can sense his bottom lip wobble, so he clamps his jaw tight shut. To no avail. He continues to drive them down the M25, although at this point he could be in St James’ Park, or in the middle of a desert, or on another planet- his mind is entirely elsewhere. 

It’s not a conscious decision to stretch out his hand over the gear stick towards Aziraphale. It’s something desperate in him, something needy and disbelieving. He feels Aziraphale take it without pause, his clasp warm in his own.


	2. Golden Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is self-conscious about his eyes. Aziraphale thinks he knows just the thing to make him feel loved.
> 
> The second of my tumblr prompts! original post [ here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/186196393270/if-youre-still-doing-ineffable-husbands)

“Crowley, dear, where are you hiding?”

Crowley cracks open one snake eye. Technically, he isn’t hiding. He _had _been napping, until Aziraphale’s sing-song voice woke him up. Naps are always significantly better when you can be a snake and curl up in some quiet nook somewhere. No bed required. No judgment. Because, unsurprisingly, people don’t tend to judge snakes that happen to be asleep behind a bookcase- they just scream and run away.__

__Crowley pokes his snakehead around the edge of said bookcase and darts his tongue. He can taste Aziraphale’s cologne in the air. Out of sight, somewhere in the room, Aziraphale sighs wearily, but affectionately._ _

__“Oh, come now, there’s no need for that. If you want to ignore me then don’t go to sleep in my bookshop.”_ _

__He stretches his head out further, and he sees him- stepping slowly into the room, looking about the place with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. His neck craned backwards so he can gaze up into the light that pours through the glass dome above. Bathing in it like the day he was born- how all angels are born, in the light of God’s smile._ _

__All angels including Crowley, once upon a time._ _

__Crowley lets his snake eyes stare at him from afar, just for a moment longer. Then, he gathers his limited energy and slithers into view. He likes a good slither. Slithering is much more satisfying than walking, which involves using too many joints, and hips getting in the way. Just as he’s about to sneak up behind Aziraphale’s back, the angel turns and peers down. He sighs again, straightening his waist-coat thoughtlessly._ _

__“Oh _there_ you are, my love.” Crowley’s cold blood warms at those words. He curls around Aziraphale’s leg like a vine, wrapping around his waist and coming to rest his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale peers over at him with narrowed eyes and raised brows, a furtive smile. “Where have you been, then? Scare any customers away?”_ _

__“ _Yesssssss. Jusssst a couple. One of them almosssst called animal control._ ”_ _

__“Wonderful. Hang on- actually,” Aziraphale double takes, planted on the spot now that he has a giant python wrapped around him. “Not all that wonderful, Crowley. I do very much appreciate that you’re- uhm-”_ _

__“ _Sssssstanding guard_ ,” he supplies._ _

__“Fine, standing guard, however you want to call it. I admit that it was getting exhausting miracling all the customers away, and I do love you for doing this, but- I don’t know how many times I can convince the RSPCA that ‘no, there’s no python here, everything’s just fine, tickety boo, nothing to worry about, officer, thank you very much, have a nice day’. And all that.”_ _

__The chastising look he’s getting from Aziraphale isn’t very intimidating- actually, it’s a bit comical, particularly with his face this close to Crowley’s. He can only see him with one eye, anyway- the other eye, on the other side of his snake head, is facing Aziraphale’s desk and surveying the half drunk bottle of whisky with interest._ _

__Thinking that perhaps he ought to give Aziraphale a chance to have a real conversation face to face, he makes a sussurating, serpentine sigh and takes his human form. By the time scales have become skin and the tail has become limbs, he’s still wrapped around Aziraphale, albeit with his feet on the ground. His arms are around Aziraphale’s waist, clinging. His face buried in the soft cashmere of his jacket. His breath hot on his face, trapped between the material and his lips. He lets himself hang there._ _

__Aziraphale feels like home._ _

__It makes Crowley angry sometimes, thinking of all the times he could have held him like this, _felt_ like this. All the times he could have been braver and said those three simple words._ _

__“Have you been sleeping all morning?” Aziraphale asks gently, rubbing his back._ _

__“Sleepy,” he grumbles._ _

__“ _Oh, dear_.” The way Aziraphale says this is like he’s consoling a moody toddler. _ _

__“S’fine. Just that it’s cold outside and your shop’s warm.”_ _

__“Mmm, yes. I turned the heating on the day before yesterday. Such strange weather we’re having at the moment. Do you know, British Gas rang me yesterday and tried to tell me that I haven’t been paying my bills. Can you believe it?”_ _

__Crowley snorts, lifts his head up and leans back from their embrace a little. Soft, but stern pale eyes scan over Crowley’s face._ _

__“What did you say?”_ _

__Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, obviously I found my log books and gave them a thorough run down of my payments. As if I don’t keep track of my bills. Really.”_ _

__“ _Really_ ,” he agrees with amusement._ _

__There had, of course, been the time when Aziraphale had been visited by the Tax Man for being so suspiciously good at balancing his books. Truth is, he really is just that diligent. Crowley briefly feels sorry for the British Gas employee who must have been on the other end of that phone call- they must have had their ear talked off. Gotten a proper lecture, just like the Tax Man. And then, Crowley is bizarrely overwhelmed by how proud he is of Aziraphale for being so unceasingly irritating._ _

__This thought process is interrupted as Crowley registers the dreamy look on Aziraphale’s face. A sweet smile and pinched brows._ _

__“What is it,” he asks warily. Aziraphale’s soppy expressions usually indicate when Crowley’s unintentionally done something nice. Or romantic._ _

__Well, at least, it’s very rarely intentional._ _

__“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale pats his chest with a coy smile. Implying it’s not nothing at all, and he’s about to expand any second-_ _

__“It’s just,” the angel continues, gaze peering at him through his lashes. “You have such lovely eyes. Sometimes, it just catches me off guard.”_ _

__Of all the things for Aziraphale to say, he hadn’t expected that at all._ _

__And after all the years that the two of them have known each other, his compliments still make Crowley twitch._ _

__“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters. He hates how he sounds._ _

__And he loves that Aziraphale is unfazed by the sneer that’s most probably on his face right now._ _

__“You do. They’re really, truly beautiful, my dear.”_ _

__“Stop it.”_ _

__“I am being totally serious.”_ _

__“That doesn’t mean you’re right.”_ _

__“Oh- I may be a bit daft at times, but I’m right about some things, and this is one of them.”_ _

__“God you’re- you’re insufferable-”_ _

__“You’re beautiful, Crowley-”_ _

__“ _Aziraphale_.”_ _

__“Your eyes are golden like Autumn leaves-”_ _

__“Jesus. I’m- I am genuinely considering becoming a snake just to strangle you, you do realise that-?”_ _

__“Shining like distant suns-”_ _

__“I _will_ leave you.”_ _

__“Do you not see that you have nice eyes, Crowley?”_ _

__“They’re fine. They’re eyes. Serve their purpose.”_ _

__“Yes but- they’re _golden_. They’re _remarkable_. Some would even say angelic.”_ _

__“Except they’re not, are they?”_ _

__The teasing smile on Aziraphale’s expression falls a little. The teasing tone in Crowley’s voice turns bitter. And Aziraphale’s hands hold onto the lapel of Crowley’s jacket. The gesture is strangely protective._ _

__“Oh. _Oh,_ I’m sorry, Crowley. I hadn’t realised you were self-conscious,” Aziraphale says quietly. Just for them to hear, even though they’re alone in the bookshop._ _

__And Crowley doesn’t look back, even though he feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He _refuses_ to look back. Something in him makes him want to run away. He doesn’t- instead, he grinds his teeth and breathes loudly through his nose, staring at the pile of E. M. Forster books on the table adjacent. _ _

__He could stand here silently and ignore that statement, or he could argue (and lose that battle, because there’s no use arguing with Aziraphale). Instead, he sighs._ _

__“They’re not angelic, though, are they. They’re the one thing about my form I can’t change. If I discorporate, I could have any other body, but I would still have these eyes.” And he thinks he’s finished, except he hasn’t, because the words tumble out of his mouth like he’s drunk. “Just- you know, a fun reminder of that little mistake I made, when I was young and reckless- and hung out with the wrong crowd, like any stupid kid does. A warning to everyone else that I’m wily. And _bad_ and _cruel_ and _untrustworthy_. Because, obviously, you know, people deserve to have their mistakes literally branded on them for the rest of eternity.”_ _

__And then he really is finished, so he swallows and sighs, turning his gaze to Aziraphale’s bow tie. It’s not tartan today, but it’s just as poncy. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is quiet. Like he’s been embarrassed into silence for putting his foot so thoroughly in it, Crowley thinks._ _

__But then, Aziraphale always manages to surprise Crowley, just a little._ _

__“I know _just_ the thing.”_ _

__With one more comforting pat on Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale untangles himself and disappears behind some bookshelves. The shop feels almost frighteningly large- without Aziraphale’s close presence, without the tight nook of a bookshelf as a bed. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see him fussing, tutting to himself as he peruses a pile of dusty first editions. Moving one pile out of the way to make room for the next, bending down to find something in particular, it seems._ _

__“What you looking for, angel,” he asks, a little gruffly in his confusion._ _

__Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is his way of telling Crowley to be patient and bear with him. Eventually, he makes a pleased little hum, and pulls out a book from the bottom of the very last pile._ _

__Aziraphale twirls around theatrically to face Crowley, book open in one hand and the other clutching his chest._ _

__“ _Golden Eyes,_ ” he announces, with his best thespian voice. “A poem by Laurence Hope.”_ _

__“No,” is all Crowley says in response._ _

__“ _Oh Amber Eyes, oh Golden Eyes! Oh Eyes so softly gay!_ ”_ _

__“Christ.”_ _

__“ _Wherein swift fancies fall and rise, Grow dark and fade away!_ ” Aziraphale begins to pace the room, book hand extended like he’s reading from a script. Like he’s one of Shakespeare’s actors, only, miraculously, even more ridiculous. “ _Eyes like a little limpid pool That holds a sunset sky, While on its surface, calm and cool, Blue water lilies lie-_ ”_ _

__“You can stop now,” Crowley argues, a smile creeping up on him._ _

__Aziraphale seems to pick up on his amusement, because he bounds over with dramatically wide eyes, and is now, God help him, making whimsical hand gestures to accompany his performance. He’s enjoying this too much. “ _Oh Tender Eyes, oh Wistful Eyes, You smiled on me one day, And all my life, in glad surprise, Leapt up and pleaded ‘Stay!’_ Ooh, now, hang on,” he interrupts himself, “let me just find my favourite bit…”_ _

__“You- don’t. You don’t have to.”_ _

__“I do, and I shall,” he replies primly, putting on his reading glasses and tilting his head upwards so he can read the pages a little better. “Ah! Here we are- are you ready?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“ _Ah laughing, ever-brilliant eyes, These things men may not know, But something in your radiance lies, That, centuries ago, Lit up my life in one wild blaze Of infinite desire To revel in your golden rays, Or in your light expire_.”_ _

__And- yeah, alright, that is quite nice, Crowley thinks. Maybe he can put up with being serenaded every now and then, so long as he gets to roll his eyes and pretend he hates it. And Aziraphale’s bashfulness finally seems to catch up with him as he approaches Crowley slowly, eyes fixed on the book and a small, self-conscious smile on his lips._ _

__He continues, softly._ _

__“ _If this, oh Strange Ringed Eyes, be true, That through all changing lives This longing love I have for you Eternally survives_ -” _ _

__Crowley reaches out a hand to find Aziraphale’s, to run along his arm._ _

__“ _May I not sometimes dare to dream In some far time to be Your softly golden eyes may gleam Responsively on me_?”_ _

__And at that, Aziraphale sighs. He looks away from the page and Crowley takes the book from him, lays it on the table behind him._ _

__“Well?” Aziraphale asks quietly. A little coquettishly. “May I dare to dream?”_ _

__Crowley huffs and shakes his head. He lays a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, watches the angel’s eyes flutter closed._ _

__“You silly sod,” he whispers, just so he doesn’t have to hear himself choke._ _

__With that said, he answers Aziraphale’s question- he answers in a kiss. Soft, sure, and more eloquent than any words he’d ever be able to stumble through._ _


	3. Out of Touch (Out of Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale bumps into Crowley in Manchester one night in the 80s. They go to a gay bar. It's very gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number 3 of the prompts! tumblr post [ here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%20prompt)

The year is 1984. Margaret Thatcher has won her landslide victory, and the miners’ strike has started sweeping the United Kingdom. Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) is beginning to make its mark in the papers. Madonna has taken over all radio stations worth listening to. Manchester United and Brighton drew 2-2 in the FA Cup, and the CD is now available in all good music stores. 

Aziraphale is in Manchester. The North is currently filled with civil unrest due to the current political situation. Crime is rising, jobs are dwindling, people are scared for their futures. Aziraphale doesn’t often venture to The North, but when he does, it’s because something’s either gone terribly wrong or terribly well. For example, the Industrial Revolution (which had been both good and bad). 

Crowley is in Manchester, too. He is in Manchester’s coolest club, The Haçienda. Nowadays, rather shockingly, Manchester is the place to be. It’s where New Order and The Smiths come to play. It’s the epicenter of British sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. It’s Crowley’s creation, and for the first time since the city’s inception, he’d been- in his own words- ‘more than happy to come and check up on it and see how it’s doing’. 

The two of them run into each other one night, on a busy street outside The Haçienda. 

It’s eleven-thirty in the evening when Aziraphale turns a corner and walks directly into his best friend, whom he hasn’t seen since 1975. At first, he doesn’t recognise him for the lack of handle-bar moustache, begins apologising profusely. But the apology fades away on his tongue as he takes a step back and sees Crowley, giant Ray-Bans hiding most of his face. A black suit that’s too large for him- shoulders padded. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ankles of his trousers rolled up too, and slacks without socks. And a painfully loud red and black Hawaiian shirt. 

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up above his considerable sunglasses. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley! Fancy running into you here.” Aziraphale brushes off his cream, swede, double-breasted suit jacket. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley spends a moment trying to re-roll his sleeves. Ever the perfectionist, he isn’t happy with how purposefully dishevelled he looks, and shrugs off his jacket, trying again. As he faffs, he continues, “This is my city. And it’s only just started getting really interesting. What are you doing here? What’s an angel doing in Manchester of all places?” 

“Well. All this Thatcher business.”

“Oh,” Crowley nods. “Yes. _Her._ Coming to try and tidy up after her, are we?”

“Sort of. Lots of unhappy people, thought I’d try and perform a miracle or two.”

“Fair enough- except- except, doesn’t _really_ answer my question,” Crowley drawls, stepping closer, sliding his hands into the pockets of his loose trousers.

The streets of Manchester are filled with party goers. Music from The Haçienda booms out, cigarette smoke pouring through the half open doorway. The bouncer eyes them suspiciously.

Aziraphale feels transfixed on the spot, Crowley’s gaze fixed on him and an amused smile playing on his lips. 

“What’s an angel doing in Manchester at _11:30 on a Saturday night?_ ”

Aziraphale stares. That hair. Some sort of miracle has gone into that hair, the way it’s been swept back and sprayed to an inch of its life to keep its hold. There’s so much volume to it, so much life that it looks like it might leap right off Crowley’s head and run away. But what’s more distracting is the way Crowley begins to pace around him, the way he always seems to do. Like he’s orbiting Aziraphale- the sun around a sunflower. And Aziraphale turns to watch him.

“It’s- you’re right, it’s not my preferred thing to be doing,” Aziraphale begins, feeling very thoroughly watched. Crowley is looking at him like he’s enjoying himself, as if he’s _impressed_. “I’d much rather be reading my book back home, but I’m actually here to lend some support.”

“Support?” Crowley repeats, smile still there, brows raised in interest. 

Aziraphale glances at him as he continues to circle. People pass them by on the street without a second glance. The bouncer, however, looks like he’s about to shoo them away from the outside of the club. 

“Support,” he emphasises. How is he forgetting his words so easily tonight? Crowley doesn’t always have this mind-numbing effect on him, but when he does, it’s awfully embarrassing. “I’m here to support the Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. They’re having a party to gather allies in the gay club here. Just down the road.”

Crowley stops at that. And if he’d looked impressed before, now he looks positively elated, smile huge and brows flying to his hairline. “You what? LGSM- that was you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says quietly. Smiling to himself, feeling pleased. And quite frankly, flourishing a little under Crowley’s smile. “Two subjugated parties, coming together for a common cause. _Equality_.”

“And riots.”

Crowley smirks. Aziraphale frowns at him.

“ _Peaceful protest_ ,” Aziraphale amends. 

Crowley bows his head in concession. “Of course,” he says insincerely. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says, before Crowley can begin lecturing him. “I’m heading over there now, just to show my face. It would be very rude not to, as they had invited me. Although…”

Aziraphale swallows. Looks about the dark, lamplit streets around him and sees the people stumble along, beers in hand, empty bottles of Lambrini rolling down the pavements. People chanting football anthems as they run through the deserted roads. The red-brick, converted factory buildings illuminated by club lights.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

“No,” Aziraphale asserts. Then, after being stared at for a few moments, “Yes.”

Crowley snorts. “Well, there’s only one good gay club that I know of round these parts, go there quite a lot myself.”

That brings his attention right back to Crowley’s Ray-Bans. “You do?”

Crowley shrugs enthusiastically. “Yeah, why not? Good fun.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ah- good. Well…”

“You don’t strike me as the type to go to clubs often.”

“And you’d be right.”

“So, let me get this straight- you live in Soho, gay centre of London, and haven’t been to a gay club?”

“Not knowingly, no. You’ll have to show me the ropes.”

Crowley looks at him. He looks at him with an intensity that makes Aziraphale’s neck shiver strangely, and not altogether unpleasantly. And then he sniffs, looks away, begin walking away from the club their hanging outside of. Their steps falling easily in sync, as if they haven’t been apart for more than five minutes.

“You know it’ll be loud.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you probably won’t like the music.”

“Well, I’ll judge that for myself.”

“And people will try and flirt with you. Even in…” Crowley looks him up and down. “That.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley and side-steps a little as they walk, brushing off his jacket again defensively. Looks down at his outfit- he’s sporting a very soft, very comfortable turtle neck. And some well-fitted trousers, thank you very much. Aziraphale has never seen _Miami Vice_ , but he has seen posters and he knows that Crowley has taken the vast majority of his fashion inspiration from the show (at least he’s now emerged from his _Saturday Night Fever_ phase). Aziraphale thinks he has rather better standards.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like a Philosophy teacher.”

“And- excuse me, what is wrong with that?”

“You’re going to a gay club.”

“Well, my lesbian and gay friends don’t seem to take issue with my fashion choices.”

This is not, distinctly, true. They had tried to give him a makeover last week, and it had ended up with him looking like a lost member of Adam and the Ants. 

“Alright, well, how about this.”

Crowley snaps his fingers- and then Aziraphale’s in a white silk shirt, buttons undone to his clavicle, the collar turned up and sleeves rolled up. White trousers- oh, Lord, no, they’re white _jeans_. And, well. 

A little snug, at that. 

“Good God,” he remarks.

“There. Suits you.”

“White jeans, Crowley. I mean, really, I think I can be classier than that.”

Crowley links arms with him and grins eagerly. Aziraphale’s back straightens and he returns his smile, a little giddily. 

“Tonight, we aren’t doing classy, angel.”

***

Three hours and several cocktails later, and Aziraphale has found himself dancing something that isn’t a gavotte. 

Some song about ‘ _needing a hero_ ’ is playing, very upbeat and jovial it is, too. He’s dancing with the LGSM crew, glass half empty in one hand. It’s hot in here- he’s sweating horribly. And it’s incredibly loud. He doesn’t know what anyone’s saying, but they’re all having an excellent time. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air. And there are men in shorts so absurdly tiny that he doesn’t know how they keep everything in. The outfits get far more outrageous than that, too- people in full leather, people in full feathers, people in full glitter. 

Gay clubs are fantastic, Aziraphale has decided. 

He’s several drinks in, and Crowley has gone to the bar to buy a round for them all. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is jumping around with reckless abandon, knowing that, sooner or later, Crowley will come back. Crowley will come back and look at him in that way he does that Aziraphale doesn’t understand but makes his heart jump- a look that’s intense, yet soft, frustrated yet affectionate. 

Aziraphale will do almost anything to see him look at him like that. 

In the loud of the club, he hand signals something to his friends- something very inarticulate and nonsensical that’s meant to convey _‘I’m going to go look for my age-old friend Crowley, whom I have associated myself with for roughly six thousand years even though it’s technically against the rules, but I do it anyway because he’s probably the only person in this universe who understands me. Also I’m going to go help him with the drinks.’_ And so he steps further into the crowd of the club- he’s lucky he’s drunk enough that he isn’t bothered by the sheer number of people- stepping on the sticky floor to find his friend. 

And there. 

There is Crowley, two cosmopolitans in hand. Being chatted up by a stranger. 

A very large, lumberjack looking man leering at him. He has even more hair on his head than Crowley does, piled on top of it like a rodent. And then there’s the huge beard and the frankly alarmingly hairy chest, poking out of layers of denim. Crowley stares at the stranger with slightly raised eyebrows and pursed lips, listening to whatever pick-up line he’s being given with a look of heavy judgement. 

And at first, Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do.

There’s no reason to be jealous, of course. Because, they aren’t together. In the coupley sense, anyway. Are they?

 _No we aren’t, we can’t be_ , he thinks. Aziraphale would know if they were. And they’d probably see each other more often if they were, rather than parting ways every decade or so only to accidentally run into each other. 

But he thinks about him all the time. All the damn time. He’s the only person in this universe that he misses, really truly misses. And Aziraphale knows beyond doubt that what he’s feeling right now is jealousy- a burning, horrible possessiveness that makes his stomach churn and his chest ache. A furnace inside him that makes him square his shoulders and march over to Crowley through the sea of sweaty bodies. He knows it’s jealousy- which is not good news at all, for an angel.

 _Bad bad, very bad indeed. Not heavenly. Problem is, I think I love him, and there’s not much to be done about that,_ Aziraphale thinks to himself. _Lord, I’m very drunk._

The song about needing a hero continues, its fast rhythm giving him momentum as he approaches the enormous man and an unintimidated Crowley. And then, Aziraphale hesitates. Because, he really shouldn’t be interrupting this, if Crowley enjoys this sort of thing- and he’s said he does like gay clubs, so by proxy he probably also likes the attention from other men. Which means that Aziraphale has absolutely no room to disturb that enjoyment, even if it hurts him. 

And so Aziraphale stands and watches, heart breaking a little in the middle of the dance floor as Crowley smirks at the lumberjack man. Lumberjack man leans a hand on the bar and continues talking. Leans in to say something in Crowley’s ear. 

Aziraphale _burns_. 

He watches helplessly as Crowley’s smirk becomes a grimace, and he begins searching the crowd. The disco lights catch his Ray-Bans, flash a bright green. And then he seems to spot Aziraphale, because his face softens in relief, his body slumping so he almost pours the cosmopolitans down his shirt. Aziraphale watches his lips as he mouths something to him.

_Help? Please?_

That’s all it takes. Aziraphale doesn’t question the fact that Crowley could easily miracle himself out of this awkward situation. If it crosses his mind that actually, Crowley may want Aziraphale to come save him, it’s quickly dashed away. Yes, that thought is considered for all of point-five of a second, before being locked away and buried somewhere deep in his mind. 

Aziraphale rocks up to the bar. Crowley smiles at him, extends an arm to Aziraphale and gives him one of the drinks. Then, he snakes said arm around his waist.

 _Oh, golly,_ he thinks in sudden alarm. 

The song changes to something about ‘ _spinning me right round_.’ Not that Aziraphale’s attention is on the music right now- no, it’s on Crowley, who’s wrapped himself around Aziraphale and is leaning against him sinuously. 

“Sorry, love, this is my boyfriend,” Crowley shouts over the music to the disgruntled looking stranger. “Go bother some other twink.”

Aziraphale has absolutely no idea what that last part means, but it does make him laugh nervously. Crowley looks at him seriously, raises his eyebrows at him over his sunglasses. From this close, he can see the slits of his snake eyes. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says out loud- one step behind Crowley’s thought-process, as drunk as he is. 

He wraps an arm around Crowley’s slim waist, and gives lumberjack his best intimidating stare. Straightening to his full height and tilting his chin imperiously. Lumberjack waves a dismissive hand at them and moves onto his next conquest. 

The two of them hover at the bar for a long moment, annoying the rest of the club-goers who are trying to get to the front to make their orders. They stand there, arms around each other, both of them seemingly frozen in surprise at what has just occurred. And, apparently, not knowing what to do next.

Crowley is the first to untangle himself. His cosmopolitan sloshes down Aziraphale’s shirt, and he instantly miracles it better, without a care in the world who can see. He stands back a little- not very far. There isn’t enough room to stand that far apart. And he looks him dead on. Purses his lips, as if nervous. As if trying to figure out what to say. 

Then he dips his head to Aziraphale’s ear to speak. The closeness of it-

 _Lord,_ the closeness of it. The heat of Crowley’s breath against his ear is something else. It freezes him on the spot.

“Fancy a dance, angel?”

Crowley leans back again. He looks tense and relaxed all at once. Lips parted, as if dazed. Cheeks red from the heat of the club. A sheen of sweat on his brow, shoulders creeping up to his ears. 

Aziraphale nods. And then Crowley beams a sharkish grin at him- something far more apprehensive than it is happy or confident- and takes his hand. 

He takes his hand, and Aziraphale lets him take him to the dance floor. 

They dance. They dance to the song about spinning right round, to a song about being together in electric dreams, and then something by the wonderful Mr Bowie. Because yes, even Aziraphale knows David Bowie. And if he notices the LGSM gang waving and leering at him, making rude hand gestures and mouthing words of encouragement at him from across the room, he ignores them as best he can. Rather, he waves a shooing hand at them when Crowley’s back is turned. They’ve heard him talk about Crowley too many times for them not to put two-and-two together, apparently. 

How mortifying.

That doesn’t stop them from having the most enormous fun. Crowley is absolutely delighted by the fact that Aziraphale can dance something other than the gavotte. Within the first three minutes he’s laughing uncontrollably, grinning like an idiot with how amusing it apparently is to see Aziraphale dance. When Crowley dives in to talk in Aziraphale’s ear again- a hand on his arm-

_A hand on his arm-_

He tells Aziraphale that he dances like a granddad. Aziraphale shouts something about Crowley being very rude and mean to him- he doesn’t remember the exact words, he’s too tipsy- and Crowley just smiles wider. They dance and shout and Crowley sings lyrics at the top of his lungs like his life depends on it, with utter dedication that makes Aziraphale’s heart swell. They continue to drink and laugh and let the night take them somewhere they haven’t experienced together before. With every song, with every terrible dance move that he shares with Crowley, he feels some weight lift of his shoulders.

And then something with a heavy beat starts playing. Something that stops the crowd from jumping and flailing. It takes too long for Aziraphale to notice, drunkenly swaying on the spot with a dazed smile pulling at his lips. And then he sees the way Crowley is standing stock still, arms awkwardly at his sides like he’s forcing them to stay there. Lips pressed together and eyes scanning the room. 

Aziraphale doesn’t think about taking his hands in his, he just does it. Crowley’s eyes snap up to him, lips parting in soft surprise. 

The music plays. 

_‘You’re out of touch, I’m out of time- but I’m out of my head when you’re not around…’_

They move closer. And then they move even closer. And Aziraphale holds Crowley’s hand, holds his waist like he’s leading him in a waltz. And Crowley looks at him with brows pulled together, Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallows. And they shuffle terribly awkwardly, as if they’ve both forgotten how to use their mortal bodies, forgotten what legs are. And Aziraphale supposes he should feel embarrassed, that this should feel strange. To hold his best friend like this and stare into his eyes like he has no intention of ever leaving this moment. And in a way, it does feel strange.

But more than that, it feels wonderful.

And if the song changes to something faster again, neither one notices. If the club starts to get quieter, people going home, neither one cares. And if the world really is going to end someday soon, with fire and flame and the armies of Heaven and Hell using Earth as its battle ground, neither one will leave each other’s side. 

The year is 1984, and although they’re both too afraid to say it out loud, they know that they belong together.


	4. Casablanca and Hand Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ineffable movie night!
> 
> tumblr prompt [ here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/186423183970/also-prompt-ineffable-movie-night-you-pick-the)

Regent Street is covered in a blanket of snow. 

It’s rare that London sees snow like this; a good few inches on the pavements, people’s footprints frozen into it like cement. The cars parked on the street are dusted with icing sugar and the grey sky rains down flurries of snowflakes. It is eight in the evening, and the whole place glistens, shines in the street lights like crystal. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Crowley says this as he shoves his hands in his pockets, scarf wrapped tightly around him. He doesn’t necessarily feel the cold like the rest of the humans around him, bundled up like babies in swaddling clothes- but he likes the winter fashion. Nineteen forty-three may be a time of war, and the Regent Street shop fronts may have their lights turned down, the windows boarded up. But no one can deny the fashion is much, much better than the fourteenth century. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You can’t- you can’t have watched this movie three times.”

Aziraphale flounders for a moment, purses his lips self-consciously. “You don’t _understand_.”

“Yeah, I really don’t- I can barely sit through a movie without getting bored and leaving to get a pint, how do you sit through the same one more than once-?”

“It’s _beautiful_ , that’s why!” Aziraphale argues. There’s no venom to his words, his frustration veering more on the flustered side than angry. “ _Casablanca_ is a wonderful, tragic love story, and-”

“You’re not really selling it to me.”

“It has everything, Crowley, really. The fascists getting what for! Fisticuffs! Romance-”

“I’m still not clear why you’ve watched it three times and now watching it _again_.”

Aziraphale smiles a little smugly to himself and casts a conspiratorial look in his direction, as if he’d planned all this just to trap him. “Just trust me.” 

As they walk through the gentle curtain of snow, past the people walking home- for the first time in years, without fear of zeppelins overhead bombing their streets- he feels Aziraphale beside him. Feels him right beside him, keeping with Crowley’s indulgently slow pace. Feels his arm bump occasionally into his. 

In the February cold, he feels his cheeks warm. 

It was only just over a year ago that he had stood in the wreckage of St George in the East church, air raid sirens blaring and the smell of smoke. It’s only been just over a year since the moment he’d known, simply _known_ that Aziraphale was in danger and dove headfirst into holy ground to save him. Just over a year since he’d saved them both, saved his books. Saved the image of Aziraphale’s stricken expression, taken a mental photograph and folded it away neatly, slipped it carefully into the jacket pocket of his mind. 

The brush of a thumb over a knuckle as a briefcase was exchanged. 

Funny, how over approximately six thousand years, barely any physical interaction was had between the two of them. Then, that moment. Now, shoulders bumping. It’s enough to make him spontaneously combust with embarrassment and all the hideously _romantic_ feelings that he can’t control- he’s keeping a stern eye out for any fires that might pop up over his body. 

It’s been known to happen. 

They reach Regent Street cinema, an apprehensive smile on Aziraphale’s face. “I really do hope you’ll like it. I may cry if you don’t.”

Crowley watches the way the nervousness turns into wide-eyed, almost childlike excitement. He shakes his head minutely, opens the door for him. “Go on then, after you. Before you explode.”

Aziraphale passes him a coy smile, and steps inside the cinema. 

And if the snow within a foot’s radius around Crowley begins to melt and steam in the air from his utterly demonic levels of blushing, then he’ll just have to hope Aziraphale doesn’t notice. 

***

“ _With the whole world crumbling, we pick this time to fall in love._ ”

Crowley has begun to smoke lightly from his ears.

Not that he’s noticed. And to everyone else in the theatre, it looks like he’s smoking a cigarette, like half of the people in the room. All that he’s aware of is the way this movie seems to be personally victimising him. And the fact that Aziraphale is sat straight upright in his seat, leaning forward slightly with his hands gripping his knees, brows pinched and a soppy smile. An expression that is completely enamoured. Eyes glistening, fixed on the screen. Shadows cast across his lit up face whenever the movie frame shifts. 

Crowley watches him, and doesn’t notice the smell of hair burning. 

***

He stretches his legs out in front of him in the dark, grabs the arm rests and shifts a little to get more comfortable. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have moved a muscle for an hour.

Sweeping music plays. The hero gazes down at the face of the woman he loves, heartbroken and gentle. Crowley has absorbed none of the plot- not even the fun, fighting bits that he thinks he ought to have liked. His mind has been in another dimension, and meanwhile, his heart has been in his throat. 

“ _Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life._ ”

There is the sound of people sniffling, people blowing their noses. Aziraphale is motionless beside him, to the point of being painfully tense. 

Crowley covers his face with his hand. 

_I hate this_ , he thinks. _I absolutely fucking hate this._

It has nothing to do with the quality of the movie. Nor the person who’s eating crisps loudly behind them, nor the woman at the front who’s been wailing loudly at all the one liners. It doesn’t have anything to do with the group of teenagers who are snickering at the romantic moments, either. It has everything to do with the fact that he’s sat next to Aziraphale watching a romantic movie, of all things. And that he has that expression on his face. That loving, dopy expression that makes Crowley furious with how much he adores him.

Then he feels it. With his left hand covering his steaming face, he feels a gentle brush with his right hand. Where it lies on the armrest, he feels the graze, the barely-there feeling of Aziraphale’s pinky finger beside his. 

He likes to think that he does a good job of containing his feelings. He has compartmentalised his emotions for the whole of his long, long life. And if his love for Aziraphale were obvious, he thinks the angel would have done something about it by now. 

But maybe that’s changed. Maybe something had changed that night during the Blitz, because there is Aziraphale’s hand. 

Resting alongside his, touching.

Not moving away.

He can’t help but look down at them. A pinky finger very purposefully stretching out towards his. The shock of it plummets through him, makes his stomach swoop. The confusion of it overriding any kind of excitement or joy, his mouth going dry. And he can’t help but shift his gaze towards Aziraphale’s expression- which is wide eyed in alarm, lips pressed together and shoulders tense. Eyes fixed stoically on the screen.

The movie continues to play and Crowley absorbs no more of the plot than he already had. He doesn’t even pick any more bits and pieces of the dialogue. The mental white noise is too loud, drowns it all out. The smiles on their faces are illuminated by the cinema screen. 

When he moves his arm and slings it around Aziraphale’s shoulders, the angel makes no complaint.


	5. Garden Parties and Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adam tricks Crowley and Aziraphale into confessing their feelings for each other at his fourteenth birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the tumblr prompt [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187080450640/sharing-a-bed-for-the-first-time-and-spooning#notes)

“This is….”

Crowley’s voice trails off as he views his surroundings. When he’d imagined post-armageddon, he had always thought of fire and brimstone. Or, depending on how the war ended, sickening rounds of celestial harmonies, on repeat- listening to it all from behind bars in a pit. Instead, three years into the Third Testament, the New Era, the Age of Satan’s Spawn, and Crowley’s attending children’s birthday parties. Apparently.

The back garden of the Young family household is perfect for a party- according to Aziraphale. A nice little closed off area, with some nice bunting and nice cake and a nice view of the Cotswolds rolling in the distance. Kids and family friends, together, having a _nice time_. All a bit too nice for Crowley’s taste, who’d preferred the bratty parties Warlock’d had, with nasty children and inappropriately dangerous presents (Nanny Ashtoreth had been the one to anonymously give Warlock a bow and arrow set).

Crowley takes his stand beside Aziraphale, wincing at the ensuing fourteenth birthday party. He needs a shot of insulin with how sweet this event is. He eventually manages: “This is. Ugh.”

“It is not _ugh_ ,” Aziraphale tuts, rolls his eyes. “Birthdays are nice.”

“Exactly. Nice is ugh.”

Aziraphale casts him a reprimanding glance, but a smile is pulling at the corners of his lips. He looks Crowley up and down judgmentally and passes him a plastic cup. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Punch.”

“I’m assuming not the alcoholic variety.”

“It’s a fourteenth birthday party, Crowley.”

“What? The Youngs could be more progressive than you think. What harm did a bit of vodka do a teenager. Do teenagers not drink nowadays? I find it hard to keep track.”

“Not till his sixteenth,” Aziraphale says. Eyes scanning the party with as much wariness as Crowley’s had. Adults eating cake from paper plates, teenagers sitting on the grass and sulking at how lame this is.

“I can- I can almost guarantee that lot will have had a cheeky WKD before sixteen,” Crowley mutters into the plastic cup of punch.

Their gazes find The Them, who are sat on the garden bench and on the grass, conspiring amongst themselves. And Crowley thinks that whilst a couple of them aren’t really that badly behaved, Adam has a mischievous streak about him, and the others follow suit. The Youngs are probably struggling to keep up with their teenage son. But then, better the little devil use his powers to make a fake ID to grab a six pack of Strongbow from the corner shop, than to destroy the world.

Just as he’s considering this, the four of them look up at Aziraphale and Crowley. As if they’ve been talking about them.

Crowley sighs, peering at them over the rim of his glasses. “Yep. That lot are trouble makers.”

“It- are they talking about us?”

“Looks like.”

Aziraphale pouts his lips. “Teenagers.”

For a moment, they simply stand at the periphery of the party and survey. Newt and Anathema are here, who they could probably hold some awkward conversation with (“So… world didn’t end then.” “Apparently.”), however, they’re currently occupied by some of the guests from the village. And there’s a lot of other people who’ve been invited by Mr and Mrs Young who seem to be here for their benefit rather than Adam’s.

“Why are we here again?” Crowley whines.

“Because we’re his godparents.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose, peers down at the red juice that’s calling itself punch and doesn’t have nearly enough rum in it. “Not officially.”

“You were the one who assigned us that term, remember?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Suppose.” Then, because he’s feeling brave. And he gets these bouts of bravery when he’s in Tadfield. “How’s about after this we find the nearest pub and pissed. You can crash at mine afterwards.”

There’s a moment when he looks like he’s going to argue, twisting his lips primly and casting fleeting glances at Crowley. All coy. Crowley loves every daft bit of him. “Yes. That does sound good.”

“We can wash down the niceness of this pa- uh-oh. Here they come.”

Aziraphale picks up the slice of cake that he’d laid on the table behind him. A forkful hovering just in front of his mouth. “Sorry?”

“Teenagers, twelve o’clock.”

Aziraphale reluctantly lowers the fork, puts it down on the paper plate and surveys The Approaching Them. Adam at the front. And then the others disperse- going inside to do something more interesting, Crowley supposes. Now, with just Adam, it feels less like they’re about to be ambushed. The boy looks at them with that quietly expectant look he has, and has had since he was eleven when they first met. Though he’s a few inches taller than he used to be.

Dog trots by Adam’s side, and looks up at Aziraphale, pleading silently. Aziraphale brings the plate of cake closer to his chest and narrows his eyes at Dog.

“Thanks for coming,” Adam says, though he doesn’t look massively excited.

“Are you having a nice time?” Aziraphale asks pleasantly.

Adam shrugs. “Not really. Mum and dad invited all their friends and none of mine. Apart from you two, and Anathema and Newt. And obviously Pepper and people. It would be a lot nicer if there weren’t all these annoying old people, too.”

Crowley nods in grim understanding, curls his lips in disregard for said old people.

“Oh,” is Aziraphale’s reply. Then, smile wavering, “Well, it’s nice to see at least that there are people here who care about you, no?”

“They don’t even really know me,” Adam shrugs. “They aren’t here for my birthday. They’re here for the free cake and to boast about their lovely little middle class lives. It’s the perfect opportunity for bourgeoisie posturing under the guise of a birthday party- it’s actually really shallow.”

So this is teenaged Adam. And no less, Adam as a teenager being influenced by _Anathema_. Aziraphale looks a bit lost for words, but Crowley’s grinning like a loon.

“Well said,” he drawls through his smirk. “Any good presents?”

“Got a Nintendo Switch.”

“Very good,” Crowley replies seriously.

“Anyway,” Adam sighs, “The others have gone inside to find lactose free snacks. I should go help.Brian’s lactose intolerant now.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Aziraphale says sincerely.

“See you later.”

Adam traipses inside, and Dog follows chirpily. Aziraphale and Crowley watch them disappear.

“He’s going to be…” Aziraphale shakes his head, exhales through pursed lips.

“Ball-buster, that one.”

“Yes.”

Some very nondescript music plays distantly. It looks as if Mr Young is attempting to hook up his phone to bluetooth speakers and is struggling, crouching on all fours to inspect the wiring. There isn’t any wiring, is the problem. It’s a wireless speaker system. But that doesn’t seem to have occurred to Mr Young- bum in the air and face buried in Apple technology.

“Oh- oh bother. Why am I like this?”

Crowley turns to see Aziraphale has dropped cake down his waistcoat. He’s holding out the offending plate of cake and frowning at the mess- multi-coloured frosting and sprinkles everywhere. Dog is absolutely delighted, eating the scraps by Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale gives Crowley his sad, cherub eyes. Crowley looks back, pouts his bottom lip. _Oh, diddums._

“Would you…?” Aziraphale asks. Looking at him through his lashes.

He gives it a long moment- gives Aziraphale a few seconds to enjoy himself, gives Aziraphale the impression that he needs to work to convince Crowley. He doesn’t.

Crowley snaps his fingers, cake gone. More than that, he turns to fetch him another slice.

And he makes that little flustered smile. The one that makes Crowley putty in his stupid angelic hands. “Oh, thank you.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he goes to get more cake.

There’s the cake- half of it left, at least eight slices. There’s the stack of paper plates. He looks up- no one around. He takes a slice as quickly as he can, not wanting to be cornered by any of the horrifically boring guests.

Then:

“Can I ask you a question?”

Crowley spins round to find Adam. Oh, that’s fine. Adam’s not a boring octogenarian. “Questions? Love questions. _Shoot._ ”

“None of the others believe me,” Adam starts, hands in his pockets, expression as cool and collected as ever. “I’m pretty convinced, but it seems rude to tell them I know when I haven’t even asked.”

“Asked what?”

He’s busying himself with cutting a slice of cake, paying attention but not feeling the need to give Adam his _undivided_ attention. That is until:

“You two are married. Aren’t you?”

A perfect slice of cake had been balanced on the knife in Crowley’s hand. And then Adam had said that. So now, he’s got a perfect slice of cake splattered all over the table. And Adam’s got a speechless demon, steaming from the ears. Literally, steaming from the ears.

“Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-”

“So,” Adam’s eyes widen a little, and he nods slowly. “You’re… not. Married.”

“I’m- you’re- what? Who- why’re- _listen_ ,” he says, pointing a paper plate at the son of Satan, “You have no- what did- did he? Where did-”

This could take forever, and they both know it. Crowley’s mouth is a broken record. His brain has disconnected itself entirely from the rest of his body. For a demon who can speak multiple languages, who can speak tongues, he can’t for the life of him speak any of them well. Thus, Adam makes the executive decision of saving him from this never-ending, hellish loop of inarticulacy.

“Sorry for making it weird,” he says, not looking that sorry, “The two of you are just so obviously in love, I figured you guys were married. And gay marriage was only legalised recently, cause, like, homophobia and stuff. So I figured that you didn’t have rings because- are you OK? There’s smoke.”

“What?”

“There’s smoke. Coming from your head.”

Right, so he’s progressed straight from steaming from the ears to smoking. Fantastic, perfect, excellent. It’s probably from the speed that his thoughts are spinning; his brain going so fast, so out of control that it’s generated enough mental friction to cause a fire. Thoughts like-

_-me and Aziraphale married a wedding what would we wear where would we live would we live together perhaps we’d have a garden and I could cook for him and he could knit me socks like the socks he gave me for Christmas two years ago and oh holy fuck is it that obvious that I love him does he realise does Aziraphale know does he love me back he loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not he loves me-_

-OK, he can smell the smoke now. Just wonderful.

Then, from across the garden, Crowley hears Aziraphale exclaim: “ _Married_?”

Pepper is staring at him like he’s an idiot. Aziraphale’s staring back at her like he’s gone catatonic. Holding an empty paper plate. Mouth hanging open. Eyes widening slowly, like the THX theme music should be playing in the background.

And then Aziraphale’s head snaps round to look at Crowley. Looking, as far as he can tell, absolutely mortified.

Crowley stares back.

Adam stares.

Pepper stares.

Crowley puts down the cake knife and takes a deep, nerve-steadying breath. Because whilst the world hadn’t really ended three years ago, it feels a bit like it has now.

 _Time to face the music,_ he thinks.

***

Aziraphale can’t cope with this. He’s never been able to cope with whatever ‘this’ is. 

From across the very nice garden, with its very nice view and its very nice guests, Crowley brandishes a cake knife and a paper plate. His mouth hangs open and brows are knit in concern above his sunglasses. And then those brows relax. They rise and continue to rise as he starts to put two-and-two together. 

Crowley begins to shake his head in panic.

The entire of Aziraphale’s being is shaking in panic. 

“Aziraphale, you don’t-”

He doesn’t stay to listen. Aziraphale doesn’t consciously decide to go inside- rather, it’s as if his feet have decided we’re going to be anywhere but here, thank you very much. So he marches into the Young family’s kitchen, where it’s cooler and quieter and people aren’t staring and where, significantly, there’s no Crowley gawping at him. 

This wasn’t meant to happen. The apocalypse happened and everything went back to normal, except it didn’t and Aziraphale’s been trying so hard not to draw any attention to the fact that-

“Oh God.” Aziraphale interrupts his internal panic with this, wringing his hands. “Oh Lord, oh God Almighty and also _fuck_.”

 _He knows, now,_ Aziraphale’s thoughts finish unhelpfully. _He surely knows._

Aziraphale closes his eyes, lets out the longest, loudest sigh he’s ever made and collapses onto a dining chair. He lays his face in his hands and lets his breath heat up his skin. The feeling is both overwhelming and comforting.

He can’t cope with this. Yes- as previously mentioned, he can’t cope with this scenario at all. With Crowley realising that Aziraphale’s besotted with him and that everyone else has noticed except for him. The whole world apparently thinks they’re married- _married_ , of all things, an angel and a _demon_ , really how _absurd_ \- and now Crowley’s been helpfully alerted to this fact and, by the looks of that expression, has proceeded to have one of his typical meltdowns. On a scale of Crowley’s meltdowns (they are fairly regular) this one is of Mount Vesuvius proportions. 

But Aziraphale has- as previously mentioned- never been able to cope with this thing of theirs. This unidentifiable, one might even go so far as to say ineffable, ‘thing’ of theirs. Even when he didn’t consciously realise the thing was there, he couldn’t cope with the thing. That’s the whole reason why he didn’t notice the thing, because he’s so wilfully ignorant. But then 1941 happened and books in a briefcase happened and a little demonic miracle happened and he couldn’t wilfully ignore the thing anymore, the thing was right there in his face and he had to acknowledge the thing. He’s in love with Crowley.

And, no, he really can’t cope with that. They’ve both sort of touched on it before, and Aziraphale’s done what he can to push the conversation away from the topic. _There is no ‘our side’_. Or: _Listen to yourself, Crowley_. Or, the one he’ll never ease the pain from saying: _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He can’t cope with it. He can’t, he just can’t. He can’t cope with the pity that would ensue once it were all out in the open. The _sorry_ s and the _it’s not you, it’s me_ s. The rejection would be too harsh. It’s the fear of falling- not from Heaven, but from Crowley’s respects. Fear of this friendship falling apart. 

Aziraphale releases a weary moan into the palms of his hands, and bebop plays jauntily outside in the garden.

“Angel?”

There’s a horrible screech as Aziraphale jolts upright, chair scraping against the floor. He stands there and stares at Crowley, who hangs in the doorway. He’s never stood in doorways, always hung there with hip cocked this way and arms draped over here of there, leaning against the door frame like his puppet master’s propped him up against it. 

“This isn’t the best time, Crowley.”

It sounds stupid as soon as he says it. Crowley stares, leaning forwards a little in disbelief like he hasn’t heard him right. Then he splutters, gesticulates vaguely. “Oh. Yes, absolutely, sorry, you’re right, now’s obviously not a good time for you, I’m sorry, _I’ll come back later_ ,” he sneers.

“All I’m saying is that we’re at a party, in public, and-”

“No! No need to explain, you’re right, let’s just,” he throws his hands in the air, spins in an angry little circle, “let’s just leave it, pretend it didn’t happen, shall we? Like we do with everything else?”

“Yes!” His desperation is so obvious. He wishes he could be a little cooler and calmer, but he isn’t, and never has been. Crowley just stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Crowley, we don’t-” he pauses, says more quietly. “We don’t talk about these things.”

Crowley continues to watch him, seemingly frozen. 

With nothing better to do, Aziraphale turns around and starts doing the washing up, human style. Filling up the sink with water and soap. No miracles involved. Some good, manual labour to take his mind off things, dropping the knives and forks into the sink and washing them. Beyond the window in front of him, guests talking amongst themselves.

The Them watching, then looking away sharpish when Aziraphale catches their eye. 

“Right, lots to do here,” Aziraphale babbles, “Now, paper plates, can you recycle those if they have food on them? I don’t remember, do you?”

“I- I don’t know angel, who gives a shit? Listen, I know- I know- I know what it seems like, with Adam coming up to me and-”

“Crowley, please,” he begs. Hands sinking in the water. “Please, we don’t… we don’t talk-”

“No, _you_ don’t talk about these things.” 

Crowley’s suddenly at his side, leaning against the counter. Hissing these words right beside his face. “I’ve put myself out there plenty of times and you’ve pushed it away, you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about it. If we don’t talk about this stuff out loud it’s because you don’t want to.”

And Aziraphale’s brain feels an awful lot like the washing-up bubbles between his fingers right now. Soft and fluffy and melting away. He turns to look at Crowley, noses almost touching, and he’s suddenly reminded of that time in the nunnery. Pinned against a wall. The conversation so close to being outright, to being honest, but the two of them too defensive. 

“What do you mean?” he asks quietly.

“You-?” Crowley huffs. It’s almost a laugh, but it’s too sad a sound to count as a laugh. “You don’t realise? Do you? You don’t know?”

This is all far too cryptic. This is why he doesn’t want to discuss these sorts of things. It’s either straight out rejection or it’s cryptic clues that make him hope too much. It makes him sound frustrated when he demands, “Don’t realise what, Crowley?”

“I thought I was… I thought it was obvious.”

“Crowley, you aren’t making sense, just-”

And then he’s suddenly not there. He’s backing away, hands in the air in surrender. “You know what? You’re right. Better not to talk about this. Fact that everyone’s just decided we’re married- that’s normal, right? Yeah, let’s bury it. Let it stagnate for a while. Just. Lock it away in a nice little box and forget about it, mm?”

“Cro-”

But he’s gone. He’s swung himself out of the room in a way that bodies shouldn’t really be able to do, and he’s gone. Out of the kitchen and out the front door. Aziraphale hears it slam behind him. He crosses the kitchen to look out the other window, sees Crowley saunter through the village towards nowhere. 

And he feels a sudden clarity. Oh, a sudden lucidity like someone’s taken a pressure hose to his thoughts. It’s painful and bracing.

And it’s so, so clear, now. 

***

He finds Crowley under a tree.

He’s been growing his hair out again. Aziraphale had never said as much, but he’s always liked it long. Ringlets curling around his face, some of it tied up messily. It reminds him of when they first met. And that remains a very strong, very warm memory in his heart. 

The Cotswolds roll in the distance, country roads winding and little church spires here and there. They’re in the garden of some huge estate, deer wandering about and people searching for good picnic spots. It’s a very nice garden indeed, and Crowley’s sat in it, beneath a tree. Legs outstretched and head leaning wearily against the trunk. 

Aziraphale approaches carefully, but not silently. Crowley notes his presence with a head turn, then looks away again, staring out at the view. Aziraphale stands beside him for a moment, looking with him, acclimatising to the mood. Then sits down.

“I’m going to get grass stains on my white trousers.”

“What a nightmare,” Crowley drawls. 

They sit side by side in relative quiet. Aziraphale, surprisingly, doesn’t feel much other than a calmness. Something he doesn’t experience often. He isn’t flapping or stressing; he simply feels like it’s all clicked into place. Finally. 

He casts his eyes up at the tree they’re under. “Oh, look. An apple tree.”

Crowley looks up at the red apples hanging above their head. Then, “You’ve got to be fucking joking. She must think She’s hilarious.”

“God does enjoy the odd cosmic joke.”

There’s a quiet, defeated sigh as Crowley looks back out at the view. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says eventually. 

Aziraphale has been looking at the little villages buried between the distant hills. He looks at Crowley now. “You don’t have to tell me anything, dear. You’ve been clear enough, I see that now.”

Crowley winces. 

“I can be… intentionally obtuse.”

And then Crowley snorts. 

“And…” Aziraphale continues, then pauses. He gazes up at the apple tree above. _When in Rome_ , he thinks. _Why not grab the proverbial apple from the proverbial tree of knowledge_. “And. Crowley? I want to know. For sure. I want to know that I’m interpreting this correctly.”

Another sigh. Crowley rubs his face, nudging his glasses off his nose and steeling himself. Aziraphale’s heart breaks. “Go on then. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything you want, just, do it quickly. So I don’t have to think about it. What is it Americans say? Something about band-aids?”

“Do you love me, Crowley?”

“Yes,” he replies instantly.

Aziraphale swallows. “Have you been trying to tell me all this time?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve been ignoring all the signs…”

“Yes.”

“That- that wasn’t a question, I was-”

“I know, but it’s still true.”

Aziraphale smiles. It’s almost a laugh, but he stops himself. Crowley’s still hiding his face, is clearly feeling horribly self-conscious. Now is not the time to laugh. “Yes, you are right about that. It is true. And I’m sorry.”

“Christ, don’t- don’t apologise. Anything but ‘sorry’, please,” Crowley moans, words muffled behind his hands. “I can deal with you shouting at me and telling me to fuck off and get over it, but pity really isn’t- that’s not. It’s just not, alright?”

“You misunderstand, Crowley.”

“I don’t see how I could’ve misunderstood, seems pretty clear to me.”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley’s arm. And then he gently encourages his hands away from his face, and holds them in his. The sunglasses have been pushed to the top of his head, leaving his eyes to stare vacantly at his knees. They’re almost entirely yellow, dilated; he’s concentrating. Very hard. 

“I’m not very good at saying these things. If I’m apologising, it’s because I’ve done a terrible job at being honest with you and with myself.” He steels himself. Gathers all the little scraps of bravery he’s ever owned. “Crowley, I’m- I’m really not very good at this, so for the time being, perhaps you’ll accept this as an answer.”

His words run dry, and before his bravery runs dry along with them, he leans in and leaves a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. Close enough to his lips that the message can’t be mistaken. Hands still very much clasped in Aziraphale’s. Crowley’s breath freezes; he goes very still under Aziraphale’s touch. And he lets the kiss linger, nose against Crowley’s cheek. Just in case. 

_There shouldn’t be any just in cases_ , Aziraphale thinks to himself sternly. _Make it clearer. No excuses._

“In case there’s any doubt,” he says, quite calmly. Quite business-like. “I’m in love with you.”

And then he leans away to view Crowley’s expression. He’s still frozen, lips parted and eyes wide, staring. Seeing. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “This. This is the moment where you say something. Before I start doubting myself and thinking that we’ve both got the wrong end of the stick.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Take your time,” Aziraphale replies. 

He does. Crowley blinks at him. Then he blinks out at the view around him, like he’s reminding himself that real life is still continuing around them. Aziraphale thinks he knows the feeling. This feels both surreal and terribly real. 

Then, Crowley looks at him again. 

“I thought,” he breathes. He sounds so gentle, so fragile. Huge, woebegone eyes. “I thought you didn’t. All this time?”

“All this time,” Aziraphale nods. 

They both look at each other for another long moment, then stare over at the cotswolds. The knobbly bark of the tree digging into Aziraphale’s back. 

“Married,” Crowley mutters. His shoulders jump in a silent laugh. “They’d love that, wouldn’t they.”

Aziraphale hums in morbid agreement. “Oh, they’d never forgive us.”

“Good way to stick them the middle finger.”

“Quite.”

“And if God ordained it- if God allowed it,” Crowley exhales between pursed lips. 

And he feels his heart swell. Feels his smile grow to match it, disbelieving and absolutely delighted. “Are you suggesting-?”

“That we should get married just to prove a point to Heaven and Hell? Well,” Crowley tilts his head from side to side in contemplation. “Yes and no. It sounds like it’d make a good party, too.”

“It would be enormous fun,” Aziraphale agrees, smile beginning to hurt. 

“Better not let Hastur or Ligur near the booze, though.”

“We could miracle the angels into wearing ugly corsages.”

“We could get one of those big ice sculptures in the shape of a swan.”

“We could miracle the _demons_ into wearing ugly corsages.”

“And all the music’ll probably turn into Queen.”

They look at each other. And then they both laugh. Unrestrained laughter, bubbling relief that’s finally been uncorked. 

Adam hears it from his back garden. He closes his eyes and sees them holding hands, looking at the view of the countryside. He sees them, hears them, and deems it good.


	6. Uh-oh, the heater's broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You know, I’ve heard that the best way to warm up is body heat.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can reblog the original fic prompt on tumblr [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187416020665/justkeeptrekkin-hi-m-anon-im-so-sorry-this#notes)

The neighbours have noticed. The whole street has lost its central heating, the entire place is freezing apart from Aziraphale’s bookshop, and the neighbours have noticed. They aren’t pleased. 

There are many cases in which Aziraphale has used his miracle abilities for selfish reasons, for his own comfort. There’s, of course, the whole situation with those nasty mafia type men wanting to buy his bookshop from him, who he’s… dealt with. There’s also all the customers he persuades not to buy any of the books, gently escorting them from the shop with an angelic smile till they find themselves outside, not knowing how they got there. 

Today, there’s the central heating. It’s very easy, really, to keep the whole shop warm. And he might have been able to fix it for the whole street, but Heaven still aren’t very happy with him about Armageddon and he doesn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. And, what with the neighbours noticing how toasty his shop is and complaining and causing a fuss, it doesn’t seem worth the trouble. 

So now, he’s lying in his bed, something he rarely uses- it also happens to have a duvet, which is helpful on this particular occasion- he’s wearing three jumpers, and he is still absolutely freezing. Lying in the foetal position beneath the sheets, he weighs up his options. 

As far as he sees it, he only has one. 

That is how, a twenty minute cab ride later, he finds himself at Crowley’s apartment building. After ringing the intercom, it takes a moment for anyone to answer. He dances a little jig on the spot, trying to keep warm, his breath pouring out of him in clouds of steam. 

Then:

“What is it?”

“It’s me- sorry to disturb you, I’m- good Lord, it’s so cold-”

“It’s all this post-not-apocalypse business, angel, it‘s messed with the weather,” Crowley says, without missing a beat. “Come on up.”

The door buzzes, Aziraphale pushes it open, and as soon as he steps inside, he’s amazed by the difference. It’s so _warm_. It’s the warmest he’s been in hours, and it’s making his skin tingle. The elevator journey up to Crowley’s floor is quick, and as soon as the doors slide open, Aziraphale sees him- leaning against the doorframe, waiting.

“Why didn’t you text me you were coming over,” he grumbles.

“I still don’t like it, Crowley.” Referring to the iPhone that Crowley’s fobbed off on him, which he’s encouraging Aziraphale to use and is failing to do so monumentally. “Every time I try and open up the message thing, it thinks I’m clicking on something called iTunes, and then it starts playing music without warning, and it’s just horrible.”

Crowley steps back to let Aziraphale through. “You’d get the hang of it if you tried. Problem with you, angel, ‘s you’re too stubborn.”

Aziraphale ignores him, as he often does when he’s being insulted like this. Crowley’s flat is deliciously warm, and Aziraphale shrugs off his coat with a contented sigh. 

“What brings you here this fine evening?” Crowley says in a jokingly formal tone. 

“Central heating is buggered,” Aziraphale says, hanging up his coat by the door. He pulls off his scarf, thus shimmying off his bow tie a little, and Crowley appears fascinated by the action. “And you know how hard it is to perform any miracles these days.”

Crowley growls. “I don’t _understand_ -” his whole body slumps with exhaustion and infuriation, “-Why they still won’t leave us alone. Didn’t we scare them enough? Why do they still care? Their plan went to shit, so why? Why?”

“Who knows, dear,” Aziraphale gently drapes the scarf over the coat stand hook, turns to measure Crowley- who’s sloped off to sit at his desk sulkily. Aziraphale watches him from the corridor, continues, “Better not to dwell on these things.”

“Better than being melted with holy water. Or burned with Hellfire.”

“Well, quite.”

Crowley is draped over his chair. Aziraphale stands and lingers. His nose is still cold. Actually, despite it being toasty in here, he thinks it might take a while for his body to reacclimatise. Crowley casts his golden eyes over towards him, where he hangs awkwardly in the sparse room. 

“So you’re coming to mooch off me, are you?”

Aziraphale tuts. “No. I had rather thought that the offer was still open.”

“What offer?”He hesitates.

“The- well. The one you made in Tadfield. On the bench. Before we got the bus to London that was actually for Oxford.”

Something in Crowley’s expression shifts. And something in his shoulders, too- his whole body tenses a little. Like someone who’d been expecting a friend to walk into the room has suddenly found the Queen, asking if she can make herself at home. 

“Right. Yes, right. You- hang on.”

Crowley launches himself from his chair, snaps his fingers, conjures sofas. Not the Spartan, minimalist type either- no, these are soft and tartan and very much Aziraphale’s style. 

“Oh! Lovely. I’ve been telling you for months that you need a proper living room,” Aziraphale notes, rather pleased with how the place looks now. “See how much more homey it is?”

“Right,” Crowley replies, like he’s not really listening. “Um. So, you’re thinking of staying the night then?”

“Ah. Well, if you’d rather I didn’t-”

“Nope. S’fine. All fine, this is fine,” Crowley rushes. “This is fine. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh- OK.”

And Aziraphale marvels at how suddenly flustered he is, spinning round in panicked circles before magicking blankets into existence, fetching a bottle of Rioja from his cupboards, turning side lights on and main lights off so the place looks warmer, less cave-like, and doing one thousand other things at once that makes Aziraphale soften. 

He’s already soft enough, but this is all too endearing for Aziraphale to handle. He’s always taken pleasure from Crowley fussing over him. Right now, the sight of him bustling about the living room- it lifts something inside of him. Something in his chest lifts like bubbles rising to the surface of a still lake.

“Crowley. Crowley,” he repeats, when the demon doesn’t hear him. After the second time, Aziraphale receives a startled expression, brows raised and mouth hanging open a little. Surprised by the interruption. “My dear, you don’t have to do all this. I’m perfectly happy just being here. With.”

 _With you,_ he thinks. _With you. Just say it, Aziraphale, you coward._

He doesn’t. He closes his mouth, stares at Crowley’s slack expression, then at the wall directly behind him. 

“Thank you,” he eventually says. Adds a nervous smile. “For putting me up.”

“Don’t- don’t thank me, you don’t need to thank me, I offered, remember? Just…” Crowley hovers in the makeshift living room. His lips twist nervously, he stuffs his hands in his barely-there trouser pockets, kicks the sofa. “What is it that changed your mind?”

“How do you mean?”

“About staying over. You said. Back then, you said your side wouldn’t like it. Now?”

Aziraphale thinks about this. He looks above the cold apartment- warm physically, cold emotionally- and then at the sofas that have just been produced. Purely for Aziraphale’s comfort. 

“I’m comfortable with you,” he says quietly, too quietly.

“What?”

“I’m- it’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. Aziraphale’s been chasing after comfort for his whole existence, never really finding it except for in the company of one person. The one person he’s not meant to want to be with. 

But-

“Well, even if you won’t accept my thank you, I’m offering it nonetheless,” Aziraphale ploughs on- Crowley frowns at him, but allows the change in subject. “So it’s there. If you want to accept it.”

After a pause, Crowley’s frown melts, and he shrugs. He collapses on the sofa. He puts on the telly.

“Alright, alright, don’t go on about it. Let’s see if there’s anything less depressing than the news on.”

***

It’s not that the sofa isn’t comfortable. It’s just that Aziraphale feels at a bit of a loose end. 

He’d confidently assured Crowley that he could leave Aziraphale to it and retire for the night. But without his books, and in such a sparse flat, he’s sitting here feeling a little bit of a lemon. 

He’s thought about sleeping. He tried, and it just didn’t seem like he’d drop off. He’s only just got the hang of this whole sleeping business anyway- he had a very successful nap after Armageddon, but it appears that he still needs practice. So, giving up, he’s resorted to looking out of the window and staring at the people down below, walking about Westminster in the cold. After a while even that gets a bit dull, so he sits on the sofa again and turns on the television, puts it on mute so as not to disturb Crowley. 

And, amazingly, he’s still cold. Not because the apartment itself is cold, but because his body is still acclimatising. He sighs. And he thinks, as he stares at the silent television, that he may need a bath to warm up properly.

The sound of the door bursting open makes him jump out of his skin. 

He turns around and looks at the door- it’s open, but no one’s there. “Crowley?”

“I can hear you sighing from all the way in here,” he calls out from his bedroom. “Just get in here.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you could entertain yourself, but you obviously can’t.”

Aziraphale stares about the living room, at a loss. Crowley’s acting as if there isn’t anything remotely intimate about him inviting Aziraphale into his room. Back on that bench in Tadfield, he’d been rather casual then too, offering to let him stay over. Aziraphale had been scandalised and tempted. He’s feeling similarly now. 

This time, though, he’s leaning towards tempted. 

And so, brushing himself off, straightening his cardigan uselessly, he stands up from the sofa and steps uncertainly into Crowley’s room. 

He’s under the covers, laptop leaning against his raised knees. The room is equally sparse, except from a huge piece of modern artwork that- for all that Aziraphale can tell- is simply a large canvas painted black with a little white blob on it. He tilts his head and stares at it for a while. 

“Planning on standing there all night?”

Aziraphale’s attention flits to Crowley. He’s sat there, peering at him over the edge of his laptop screen. Huge, yellow eyes. Watchful- and possibly a little bit guarded. He’s growing his hair out, too- it’s looking more like it did a couple of years ago, half tied up in a messy bun. 

“Sorry?”

“Just. Don’t think standing and watching me from the doorway is going to be much more entertaining than whatever you were doing next door. You. You could.” His word catch in his throat. “You could actually get in.”

“A-ah. Yes.” 

Aziraphale nods to himself, straightens his cardigan out again and walks purposefully towards the bed. When he gets there, he hesitates awkwardly- Crowley watching with wry amusement. He pulls the duvet back and covers himself, knees in the air. Back, uncomfortably, against the railing of the bed. 

“Well done, you managed,” Crowley drawls. 

“Stop it.”

“Just a bed, angel,” he adds, though the tone is too light.

“I don’t use them very often.”

“Yes, but, see, I was under the impression you still knew how they worked. Just then you looked like you’d forgotten the function of a duvet.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look, but Crowley’s doing something on his laptop. He seems pleased with himself.

Aziraphale straightens out his legs, wiggles his toes. 

“It is very warm in here,” Aziraphale admits. “I can see why you like napping so much.”

“Like being warm,” he mumbles, continuing to do something on his laptop that Aziraphale can’t understand. 

“What are you doing?”

Crowley sighs. “You’re so nosy.”

“No I’m- I beg your pardon. I thought you were meant to encourage curiosity, snake?”

He snorts. “I’m catching up on _Love Island_.”

“What’s _Love Island?_ ”

“You…” he wrinkles his nose. “You don’t want to know.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It’s- ha! It’s really not.”

“Oh. Is it one of yours?”

“Yep.”

“I see.”

Crowley looks at him. And there’s a strange expression on his face; strange in that it’s almost childlike. Wide eyed and vulnerable. 

“I can watch it later,” he says, lips barely moving.

“Oh- no, don’t let me stop you-”

“Nah. Nah, you know what, I’ll watch it tomorrow,” he announces too loudly, closes his laptop loudly, drops it on the floor loudly. “Let’s just sit. Sit and talk. When’s the last time we talked? Just sat and talked.”

“I believe we do that almost every day. And have done for a few millennia now.”

“Yeah, but.”

 _Not like this,_ Aziraphale thinks, though he’s too scared to acknowledge that thought. No, he ignores it stoically like a dog being offered medicine, wrapped up in ham. He eats around the pill. 

As it turns out, neither of them want to approach whatever direction that conversation was going. So they end up instead talking about nothing. Things that Aziraphale will forget about tomorrow, but are enjoyable in the moment. Eventually, he gives up on leaning against the railing and lies down, and then so does Crowley, until they’re laying side by side. It’s easy to imagine that they’re outside, on some grassy knoll, looking up at the stars. Or the clouds. Heaven. 

“I think I’m only just about warming up, now,” Aziraphale sighs, after an extensive conversation about glacier cherries and which side invented them.

“Only just?” Crowley asks, aghast. “I laid out all those sodding blankets for nothing?”

“No, no, you- you did wonderfully, dear.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way Crowley turns his head away and stares at the ceiling with a deep set frown. “I just don’t think my corporeal form is used to being cold for so long. If ever I was cold before, I’d just…”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Nothing happens, of course; he’s being careful these days. 

“Being human sounds rubbish, doesn’t it. Being cold all the time. Getting hungry. Doing exams and running out of phone battery.”

“It has its perks.”

“Yeah. Least we get to experience the good stuff.”

Aziraphale has been watching Crowley, lying on his back with his cheek pressed against the pillow. He’s been watching the way his hair is falling out of its loose ties, red curls around his face in tendrils. He also keeps finding little stray red hairs over his own cardigan; proof that this whole sharing-a-bed thing happened, in case he ever forgets (he never will). 

And he thinks of all the things that Crowley has done for him over the millennia. Everything, from the Bastille to books to apocalypses to offering a warm place to stay. He thinks of how much Crowley gives, despite never receiving; thinks of his trial in Hell, and all the cruelty that he’s experienced from the beginning; thinks about how, actually, he understands how that feels. To not be good (or bad) enough, to not be worth the attention, to be treated so coldly. Aziraphale thinks that he understands, in many ways, how Crowley feels- and he thinks of what he can give back, after everything Crowley has done. 

“You know, I’ve heard that the best way to warm up is body heat.”

It sounds ridiculous when he says it, not like him at all. But he knows that the only way he’ll be able to give Crowley a cuddle is by dressing it up. By making it seem like he’s asking for a favour, rather than giving Crowley what he deserves. Crowley will readily grant Aziraphale a favour, but will bear his fangs at the sight of a compliment. Aziraphale sees all the demon’s insecurities, and it’ll take every trick in the book to get past those defences.

Crowley’s head turns towards him. Eyes darting about his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. So. If- that is, if you’re a willing participant, you could be that body.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “An offer I can’t refuse.”

At first, it sounds like a joke. The mocking tone is there, but beneath it, there’s sincerity. It’s so genuine and affectionate and intimate- and that feeling returns in his chest, the happy-nervous bubbles rising to the surface. 

“Right,” Aziraphale breathes. Watching the indescribably soft expression on Crowley’s face. “Well, that’s decided then.”

“Suppose it is.”

Now he’s suggested it, though, Aziraphale’s not brave enough to move. Luckily for him, Crowley is. Crowley’s always the braver one of the two, even if he’s technically the bad one. 

And so Crowley lifts up an arm, a gesture for Aziraphale to lay his head on his chest. And he does, after a bit of shuffling. Crowley is bony and sharp, but there’s also an obvious landscape to him that makes it easy for Aziraphale to get comfortable- like a particularly chair shaped rock at the beach. Although it takes him a minute to find the right spot, and Crowley grumbles at him to stop moving and sort yourself out, angel. Eventually, though, they find themselves still. Cuddled up, Crowley’s arms around him The feeling of his chest rising and falling, breath tickling Aziraphale’s forehead. His smell. His hair, too close to be able to focus on properly- just a blur of red. 

Aziraphale can’t believe his luck. 

And at some point, he dozes off. They both do. Aziraphale knows this, because when he wakes up, he finds their roles reversed- they’re lying on their sides, and Crowley’s curled up beneath his chin. Their legs are tangled and so is Aziraphale’s heart. 

He simply lies there. He lies there and brings in Crowley close, holds him. Embraces him, offers him all the softness, all the attention that he deserves. Wraps him up in his arms like he belongs there.


	7. Strawberries and Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley likes to watch Aziraphale eat. Aziraphale likes to feed Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can reblog the original prompt [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187125545745/headcanon-aziraphale-has-a-food-kink-and-both)

It’s a good thing they’re not at the Ritz. 

It’s not as if Crowley’s ever been subtle. Before Armageddon, Crowley had openly watched Aziraphale eat with his chin resting on his palm- the only thing saving him from looking _completely infatuated being his sunglasses_. And Aziraphale’s endearing obliviousness. (Food as always been a priority for him; there’s no time to look at Crowley daydreaming when he’s got a chocolate torte to attend to.)

But now? Well, now, there’s nowhere for Crowley to hide. Not least because he’s not wearing his glasses right now, but also because they’re in the privacy of the bookshop. And, they’ve both started this weird thing where they’re more open with each other, now. Telling each other how they feel. Staying over to cook together and watch Countdown. _Together_. Telling each other they’ve loved each other since the dawn of time itself. Just small things. 

So, with all that having changed (for the better), whatever subtlety Crowley may have had before has done a head-first, triple axel dive out of the window.

Currently, Aziraphale is finishing up his pudding in the lounge at the back of the bookshop. Scooping up spoonfuls of custard on his spoon with an extraordinary amount of care; like a painter with a paintbrush. And Crowley’s leaning forward in his seat, watching. Shamelessly. 

“My dear, if you’re so enraptured, maybe you should have a taste.”

Aziraphale says this with raised brows, suddenly, and unexpectedly, looking at him. Like he’s waiting for a sensible answer. He pops the spoon in his mouth, drags it out slowly between pursed lips. Licks those lips. 

“Ngk,” Crowley says.

“Use your words, darling.”

“I- what do you mean? I’ve had mine.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Foul demon.”

Looking at him from his periphery with a small, mischievous smile, Crowley’s getting the feeling that Aziraphale’s using innuendo. Which is sort of remarkable. They’ve not really approached the topic of sex, yet- Crowley’s been poking his toes in the waters, then stepping back in apprehension. Now, Aziraphale’s got a look in his eye that says he’s ready to jump into the deep end. 

His words sound a lot more suave than he feels. When he talks, his chin resting on his hand, his head moves uncomfortably. “You may have to enlighten me, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggles his shoulders, pouts his lips, and with one prim little swipe, creates a spoonful of custard. He passes the spoon to Crowley. 

And he looks at it for a long moment. Partly to make the angel wait, partly because he wants to check that this moment is really happening. 

Eventually, he removes the hand from under his chin, takes the spoon. It’s warm from Aziraphale’s hold. He receives a few unhelpful intrusive thoughts- telling him how ridiculous this is, how ridiculous this looks, how ridiculous he is for trying this, Aziraphale’s going to laugh at him any minute- but Crowley does what’s been tacitly asked, because he wants to. He’s curious.

Curiosity always wins out with Crowley.

It’s sort of an amazing sight. Very surreal, to extend a spoon towards his best friend of six thousand years and feed him custard. To awkwardly shuffle his chair up close to do so more easily. To watch him lean forward a little to meet him, close his eyes to taste it all the better. Hum in appreciation. A sound that had never sounded entirely innocent even before, but now-

Well. _Now-_

Aziraphale smiles, pulls away when Crowley doesn’t remove the spoon. He’s frozen on the spot. He feels like a clay model. If it gets any warmer in here, he’ll melt. Or harden. Whatever it is that clay does.

Aziraphale’s looking at him. No, not looking at him, but looking at him. 

“Unsurprisingly,” he says quietly, “It doesn’t taste any different with you feeding me.”

“Right,” Crowley replies articulately.

“But it is more fun.”

“Mm.”

“May I?”

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s referring to- he’s looking about the table to figure out what Aziraphale wants. Ready to give it to him, whatever it is. As soon as he narrows in on the strawberries he’d abandoned on his plate, he lets Aziraphale lean across him and take one. And it’s not hard to miss the way he leans in very, very closely.

Aziraphale raises a strawberry into view. Fingers pinched around the stem delicately. “May I?” He poses again.

“Uh,” Crowley replies. 

It takes him by surprise. Aziraphale barely looks at anything or anyone when he’s eating, his focus entirely on the experience of the food he’s savouring. He’s therefore never given Crowley much attention during mealtimes (and Crowley would know if he did, he doesn’t stop staring at him the entire time). So it’s a bit of a shock to find that Aziraphale wants to reverse this experiment.

“If you’re not comfortable with it-”

“Not-” Crowley’s words stop in his mouth. His stomach’s done that thing, that swooping feeling, the one that comes from missing a step going up the stairs. “Not- that’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t actually say anything at all.”

“Alright, fine, smartarse. Go on. Feed me a strawberry, you lunatic.”

Aziraphale shuffles up closer- their chairs knock together, their legs pressed along each other- and he looks down at Crowley’s lips. Crowley watches the way his hazel eyes flit down to his lips and stay there. Head slightly tilted in thoughtful appreciation, as if looking at a painting. Strawberry ready and poised. 

Crowley measures the strawberry. 

He measures the strawberry carefully. 

And his body goes on autopilot, faster than his brain. That is, after all, why he can’t talk coherently, his lips moving before his mind has figured out what to say. This time, his lips don’t make words- they eat. He eats the strawberry in one. Stem and all. His lips dragging along Aziraphale’s fingers. And then he swallows it whole. 

Snakes don’t chew.

And, yes, he feels a bit silly now. Especially with the quiet look of shock on Aziraphale’s face. Eyes wide and lips parted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he remarks gruffly. “I know I did it wrong, no need to-”

He’s stopped abruptly when he finds two hands on the lapel of his jacket- Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his, tasting him. 

***

A little while later, they’re lying on their backs on the table, naked as the day they were created.

“We’ve run out of whipped cream,” Aziraphale says despondently, holding the can up and pressing the trigger. It makes a sad, wheezing sound, and no cream comes out.

“There’s always the Sainsbury’s around the corner.”

“Who’d’ve thought,” Aziraphale muses.

Crowley turns to his side. The wooden table is enormously uncomfortable, but it had been as good a place as any to mess around together with strawberries and whipped cream and nudity. Three things that shouldn’t go together, but apparently do. “Whassat?”

“Who’d’ve thought that I’d end up tempting the snake of Eden?”

“You what?”

Aziraphale casts him that mischievous smile again. “I _tempted_ you.”

“No- no. You didn’t.”

“I think I did. Just now, I tempted you, I’m sure I did.”

“Alright. Well, if you’ve been tempting me, it didn’t start today. Started a long time ago, angel.”

The look softens. The evening light pours through the bookshop from the windows upstairs, through the balcony banister and through Aziraphale’s hair. He’s never been less angelic than having just had whip cream licked off him by a demonic tongue, and yet. And yet. 

“Oh, Crowley. You’re such a romantic.”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“You are. A hopeless romantic, I see it now.”

“ _Stop it_.” 

Aziraphale smiles serenely, leans over to press the gentlest kiss in all existence upon Crowley’s forehead. 

“If it’s any consolation,” he mutters, lips tickling Crowley’s skin, “You’ve had me since the beginning, too.”

Crowley has no words for that. Aziraphale has nothing else to say, either. And so they lie there, on an uncomfortable oak table in a bookshop, two empty desert plates on the floor and a Sainsbury’s supermarket just around the corner, with all the whipped cream they could ever want.


	8. Freedom to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six thousand years, the apocalypse is averted, he and Crowley are finally together and Aziraphale can't hold back the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read/reblog the original prompt on tumblr [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187287123610/freedom-to-love)
> 
> Based on this [**amazing fanart**](https://mundycide.tumblr.com/post/187264971166/thegoodomensdumpster-mundycide-freedom-to) by mundycide on tumblr!

It’s only now in the quiet of the bookshop that Aziraphale feels it creep up on him. 

It’s sort of silly, in a way. It feels silly, that, after all that they have both been through, this should be the moment that Aziraphale feels his throat go tight and painful. They’ve seen the world’s beginning. They’ve seen its almost-end. They have been treated cruelly and been cruel to each other in turn. 

And yet it is only now- Crowley’s pinky finger carefully, so nervously hooked over his- that Aziraphale thinks he might cry. 

He’s watching him from his arm chair- watching Crowley, who’s sat on the edge of the coffee table beside him. Crowley’s showing him something on his phone- they’re both a bit drunk, and their conversation about God’s decision to use all the leftover animal bits to make the platypus has triggered him into one of his rants. 

Aziraphale’s hand on the arm of the chair, Crowley’s just beside his. 

A tentative finger stretching out to touch his. 

Aziraphale moving his closer to accept. The start of a hand hold. A terrible YouTube video of a platypus.

It’s such a silly, _silly_ time to suddenly feel the need to cry. 

But Aziraphale feels it nonetheless. He’s spent his long existence pushing down his doubt, pushing away questions, pushing aside all the hurt that Heaven has caused with every little needle-prick they’ve given him. Six thousand years of needle-pricking. He’s pushed it all down because he’s spent this whole time prioritising Heaven. Because he thought it was right. 

How could he not? No other option. Or, at least, none that he saw- so blinded by his defiance and useless hope in something good that he pushed aside Crowley for them. And, as a result, he has been missing out on this- holding hands, platypus videos, and bottles of red wine on a sunny Sunday evening. 

He has never been more angry at himself. 

He has never felt more relieved.

It is terrifying to be here. To be on nobody’s side but his own, but Crowley’s. To have severed all affiliation with his family. It is terrifying, but it is the most at home that he has ever felt, ever since the beginning. Nothing could be more right or good than this, not even Heaven.

No, nothing has felt more right than taking Crowley’s hand fully now, hearing his rant die on his lips and seeing those gold eyes turn to him and widen. Aziraphale can’t see clearly. The tears make it like he’s seeing through a warped window. 

He grips Crowley’s hand tight.

“Angel?” 

Crowley’s voice comes out in a distraught croak, confused, and Aziraphale grips his hand harder. Squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath. The only way to stop the tears. 

But then, why hold back? He’s held back all these millennia. Perhaps-

Just for once-

“Angel,” Crowley breathes. Eyes still closed, Aziraphale hears him turn towards the armchair on the coffee table. Hand securely in his. He can’t let go, he can’t. “Who knew platypuses would make you tear up,” he jokes, quietly. “Platypuses? Platypi-?”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out horrible and strained. “God, Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

There’s a moment of terrifying silence. And then Aziraphale can’t hold his breath any more, lets out a choking sob. Covers his face with his free hand.

He hears Crowley’s knees hit the floor, by his feet.

“Aziraphale.” 

The way he says his name. Oh, the way he says his name, like they’re both in the pub and Aziraphale’s discorporated and they still think the world is about to end. 

“I’ve been such a fool.” He feels the grimace of tears on his face. Covers it with his hand as much as he can. And it’s like something is scratching its way out of his lungs up his throat, making his voice thick and pushing his breath out of him in stutters. “Oh, Crowley, I’ve been so stupid. All- all these years choosing them. Labouring over what was right or wrong, running away and being- the most terrible coward-”

“Stop,” Crowley growls. He sounds hurt. 

But Aziraphale can’t stop. The way he’s gripping Crowley’s hand now, he might just break it. “You were there all that time, you were the only one- and I tried so hard to ignore it and now we’re here and I’ve never regretted anything more, Crowley, than not holding your hand sooner.”

The sound a rough exhale. “If you hadn’t- if, if, if we’d done it differently, we wouldn’t be here now. Isn’t that right? That’s the whole ineffable thing, isn’t it angel. It’s ineffable. It’s. This is the place we’re meant to be now. Trust me, I’ve spent a lot of time- poking at my bad decisions and looking in the past, but-”

“I’m so frightened, Crowley,” he says.

And he removes his hand from his face, looks at Crowley. He looks aghast. Mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say but desperate to say _something_. Kneeling at his feet and holding onto his hand. And something in Aziraphale’s face makes his expression even more urgent. Perhaps the ugly, bloodshot redness in his baby blue eyes as he cries.

Crowley crawls up onto his feet and leans a knee on one side of the armchair. 

He wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s neck and brings him close, holds him. 

A hug. 

“Angel.”

They’ve never done this before. This kind of closeness. They’ve known each other’s souls, known each other better than anyone else and yet this- this is new. It wrings out a sob from somewhere deep inside Aziraphale.

He brings both his arms around Crowley and buries his face in his shoulder. 

“Nothing to be frightened of, now,” Crowley says in broken whisper. He swallows loudly. “Free now.”

“But- so, so many years.” Aziraphale’s words are muffled, a gasp rising out of him like he’s been drowning and now he’s surfaced. Finally, surfaced, and he can breath. “So many years of running away from… I’m so afraid of losing you, Crowley. How silly, that now we’re here, I’m afraid you’ll go.”

“Not silly.” Crowley hangs his head. Breathes in deeply. Like he’s breathing him in and absorbing what he can. “Not silly at all, angel.”

“I’m so sorry for not- Crowley- I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh. ‘S OK.”

He’s in his lap now. They’ve been pulling each other closer, as close as possible. Aziraphale’s face in Crowley’s waistcoat, hands making fists in his clothes. Crowley’s lips pressed firmly against the top of his head. Sharing the affection they’ve been deprived of, that they’ve deprived each other of. 

And he keeps crying. “Oh, Crowley.” It’s all he can say now, it’s all that’s left. It’s in the core of him, his love for him- everything else stripped away till he’s left raw, and at the centre, Crowley. This part of him that’s been dampened and squashed and pushed down and swept away, kept at bay in all ways imaginable. This beautiful feeling that Aziraphale’s abused and denied. Now it’s rising to the surface like a buoy, and it won’t go under, not any more. It pushes tears out of his eyes and sobs from his chest.

Crowley cradles his face, gently. So gently. Crowley has so many sides to him- one of them is gentle, and Aziraphale aches that he’s only just discovered it. 

“You’re where I belong,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley’s breath shudders, then. He hears it, feels it against his forehead. 

And Aziraphale is suddenly exhausted. Yet, he continues. “It’s so strange to admit that now. It feels like now that I have, this will all just disappear. That it isn’t really real. Like… waking up the minute you realise you’re dreaming.” 

Crowley sighs through his nose. Presses his lips against his head. Breathes in deeply. Strokes Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb. “Not a dream. Not this time.”

They have nowhere to be, nothing to attend to. They have no one to see but each other. And so they hold each other wordlessly for a while, and another while longer. Hold each other in all the ways they couldn’t until now.


	9. You're a Twat, Freddie Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie Mercury _naturally_ based Old Fashioned Lover Boy on the ineffable husbands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read/reblog the original fic prompt [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187473977240/1975-crowley-crosses-abbey-road-its-a-quiet)

_1975_

Crowley crosses Abbey Road. 

It’s a quiet residential street, totally normal, other than the fact that one of the world’s most famous recording studios is plonked right in the middle of it. And, aside from all the tourists trying to re-enact the Beatles album cover. 

Crowley invents the photo bomb a few decades early as he wanders across the road behind a nice German family taking picture on the zebra crossing.

He’s here to see Freddie. Crowley hasn’t seen Freddie in a while, and he’s a little apprehensive. Only because a call from Freddie on a Monday morning means he’s got something to say, and doesn’t just want to go for a few drinks or traipse around Vauxhall or Soho in their glad rags. The message on his answering machine (which is brand new, and still a little confusing) makes it sound like it’s good news, at least. Either way, the moment Crowley’s phone chimes with Freddie’s voice saying _Listen, lovey, come on over to the studio tomorrow morning, I want to show you something_ , there’s very little that’ll keep him from going. 

It’s a little chilly today. Crowley zips up his leather jacket and puts out his cigarette on the pavement, stamping it out under black boots. He saunters over to the studio and hops up the stairs two at a time. Nudging the door open with his shoulder, a wave of warmth and cheap vanilla air freshener hits him. Crowley wanders straight past the reception desk towards the room that he knows Freddie usually takes. 

The receptionist doesn’t look up from her computer when she announces the usual, “Hello sir, how can I-” and it’s interrupted when she eventually casts her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “Oh- Mr. Crowley, sir- go right on through.”

He’d been planning to, anyway. He flicks his hand in a dismissive wave of thanks and idly makes his way down the corridor. 

It’s filled with the sound of the band members chatting. The first thing that Crowley notices is Brian’s cloud of hair; it’s the first thing most people notice when Queen enter a room. They’re all bickering about something, or maybe they’re just talking enthusiastically; the success of Bohemian Rhapsody has made them all excited and ambitious and perhaps created a little bit of strain between them all. Crowley slows his pace and watches them pop out the back door, realising that Freddie isn’t with them. 

A stream of piano notes flows down the corridor. Crowley follows the sound and pushes open the door to the studio. 

Freddie is half hidden behind the raised lid of a grand piano, a cigarette in his mouth and a small frown as he watches his hands run up and down the keyboard. “Hello, Crowley.”

“Alright, Freddie.”

“Ciggie?”

“I’m fine.”

His hands remain in his leather jacket pocket where they’re still warming up, and he makes a circuit about the large studio- the wooden floors and abandoned instruments, chairs where choir members might have sat for some other band. Overhead lights unflattering and bright. Crowley winces up at them through sunglasses and listens to the jaunty chords that Freddie plays on the piano. Humming something tuneful as he goes. 

“Said you wanted to show me something,” Crowley starts. 

“That’s right,” Freddie confirms, “I’ve got you a present.”

“A present?” he grimaces, turning around and staring at the back of Freddie’s head. He wanders slowly over to the piano, where he can see some sheet music. Hand written, with lyrics on a scrap of paper that’s been paper-clipped to the side. “I don’t like presents.”

“Let’s not call it a present then.” He doesn’t elaborate. Freddie’s always had a gently playful sense of humour, and on this occasion, it makes Crowley grumble. Without glancing away from the keyboard, he asks Crowley, “Still dressing up like Robert Smith, then?”

“What’s wrong with that? I like The Cure.”

“I liked your moustache. It was a shame you shaved it off. I’m thinking of growing one like it myself.”

“I’d been informed that it didn’t suit me.”

“Ah,” Freddie replies vaguely, again. 

Crowley leans against the piano, watches the hammers and strings inside the belly of the piano jump about. And the tune that Freddie’s humming gains lyrics. He sings quietly, as if only to himself. “ _I can serenade and gently play…_ ”

“So,” Crowley presses, looking at his watch. He has some sins to sow at midday. And he needs to be in Hackney after this. “How was Japan?”

“The tour? Oh, yeah. It was great. Lots of people chasing after us in the streets.”

“That doesn’t sound great. Sounds awful.”

“We had to be bundled up in laundry baskets in our hotel and wheeled along so people wouldn’t spot us and chase us to our rooms. _That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy… Ooh let me feel your heartbeat…_ ”

Crowley releases a loud, pointed sigh, and looks about the room. Drums his fingers against the side of the piano. Freddie continues to sing to himself, albeit a little louder, his dulcet tones filling the auditorium. 

“You going to?” he shrugs. “Tell me? Why I’m here?”

“A present, or don’t you remember?”

“Yes, alright, but what is it?”

And then he finally looks up at Crowley, a little mischievously. He removes one hand from the piano to put out his cigarette in the ashtray at the far end of the keyboard. His right hand continues to trill its sweet tune. “Haven’t you been listening?”

For a moment, Crowley doesn’t catch his drift. Freddie looks down at the keyboard and keeps playing. Then:

“ _Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely_

_I will pay the bill, you taste the wine_

_Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely_

_Just take me back to yours that will be fine_

_Ooh love,_

_Ooh loverboy_

_What’re you doin’ tonight, hey boy_

_Everything’s all right_

_Just hold on tight_

_That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned fashioned lover boy."_

The song comes to its satisfying, light-hearted end, and Crowley listens. Frowning, despite himself. He doesn’t know who the song could possibly be about, and why it should be of any importance to him. It’s always been clear that Freddie isn’t attracted to Crowley, and vice versa, so it can’t be about him. Suffice to say, he wouldn’t be giving Crowley that look if it were about one of his own boyfriends. Least of all, Crowley and Freddie have never been to The Ritz together, so he really can’t figure out what-

When it eventually clicks, Crowley scowls at him. “Oh fuck _right_ off.”

“I was inspired,” Freddie says innocently. 

“Inspired my arse, you’re sticking your nose in my business and trying to profit off of it!” Crowley gestures angrily at the keyboard and paces. He paces angrily. Paces like a politician might, having found out that someone’s splurged his deepest, darkest secrets to The Mirror or The Sun. Suddenly too warm, he shucks his leather jacket and announces, “You’re a twat, Freddie Mercury.”

“So, you don’t like it. I’ll have you know I wrote it, and that makes it one of the good ones.”

“ _Inspired,_ ” Crowley mimics disdainfully. Turning on the spot with an irritated flourish, boots knocking against the wooden floor. “What makes you think I’d enjoy having a song written about me?”

“I know you’re self-conscious-”

“I’m not _self-conscious-_ ”

“Stop it with that shit, yes you are. And I know that our conversations about your man-”

“ _Don’t call him that_ -”

“Were in confidence. And trust me, I haven’t said a word.”

Crowley points an accusatory finger at Freddie, who looks entirely unperturbed. “You better not have fucking done, Mercury.”

“But,” his friend continues, “A little part of me thought it might be nice for you to hear about it out loud. In the open. Something cathartic about it.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, definitely, really nice fluffy feeling. To have your unrequited love sung about and flung in your face. Cheers for that.”

“Don’t be daft,” is the all the response he gets, before Freddie starts playing again. 

He starts from the beginning. Slow and romantic and yearning. And then it picks up and takes that jaunty tone again, something fun and mischievous- like a dare, or an inside joke. And Crowley listens- to all of it. The tune, the lyrics, the way that Freddie sings it. It’s happy. It’s loving and it doesn’t sound at all unrequited, the way Freddie sings it. In this song, both the characters are old fashioned lover boys. And something about that soothes the defensive little monster in him that’s gnashing its teeth and screaming at Freddie to shut up. 

“Nobody would know,” Freddie pipes up half way through, no longer singing, rattling off a piano solo. “It’d be totally anonymous. Well, actually, I reckon people would think it was about me. Nobody would guess it was about you.”

“ _He_ would,” Crowley says. But as soon as he does, he doubts himself. Because when has Aziraphale ever been that observant? This is the angel who’d inadvertently wandered into the midst of the French Revolution for crepes. 

And brioche. 

Freddie continues to play and sing. And Crowley listens. He finally listens without any retort. He sits on the chair behind the drum kit and listens to Freddie play it over and over, until he can almost convince himself that he lives in a world where Aziraphale loves him back. 

***

_2019_

One of Crowley’s favourite things in life is hearing Aziraphale hum. 

Crowley has lived a fairly isolated, quiet life. It’s largely self-inflicted. Some of it is Hell inflicted- which one could argue is a problem only because he’d been enough of an arse to fall from Grace. Either way, it’s quite solitary and silent. But with Aziraphale, his life is filled with sound. Not with sickening celestial harmonies, but just the sound of Aziraphale existing. 

One of his favourite sounds is Aziraphale making a cup of tea. The sound of him pottering about in the kitchen and clinking the tea spoon against the mug. Humming Mozart to himself. Asking if Crowley wants two sugars or one today (which is Aziraphale’s indirect way of begging Crowley to stop taking so much sugar in his tea). On this particular occasion, Aziraphale isn’t singing Mozart, however. Nor is he singing Liszt. 

Crowley looks up from his phone. Sat on the sofa that he and Aziraphale had argued over for three hours in DFS because neither of them could pick one that they both liked (and neither of them had managed to miracle one that they could agree on, so they thought it best to see what the shops offered as inspiration). He puts down his phone in his lap, mutes the television (which Aziraphale had also argued with him over, but Crowley had put his foot down), and listens.

“Crowley, dear, two sugars or one?”

He hesitates, tries to tell himself he wasn’t imagining it. “Uh- one, just the one today- angel?”

“Yes, love.”

“Were you just singing Queen?”

There’s a quiet, knowing chuckle, and the sound of Aziraphale shuffling in his slippers from the kitchen to the living room. He’s wearing corduroys, and his bowtie has been abandoned in favour for a cable knit jumper and shirt. A relaxed look that Crowley had rarely had the luck to see, until recently. Aside from all that, the angel is also wearing a pleased little smile as he hands Crowley his tea and sits beside him on the sofa. “Oh, yes. It seems I was.”

“That’s bebop, that is,” Crowley jokes dryly.

“I know. You must be so proud of me. It’s all that time in your Bentley, it’s a bad influence on me.”

“Just the right amount of bad, clearly.”

Aziraphale smiles. That smile he has when he knows just how adorable he’s being and is supremely proud of himself. He buries his feet under Aziraphale’s bum to warm them up, and Aziraphale tuts, shuffles to get more comfortable. 

Crowley steels himself. Clears his throat. “You do know what that song’s about, don’t you?” He prompts.

Aziraphale’s rings clink against the mug he’s holding. He looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. “Just a very nice love song, really, isn’t it? You knew Freddie well, you probably know better than me.”

Crowley blinks at him. This might take some time. “Ye- yeeeees,” he encourages slowly. “I did know him well. Well enough that he might even write a song for me.”

That little o-shaped gasp. “Really, Crowley?”

“Yes. And. You. You have listened to the lyrics, yeah?’

“Absolutely. It’s my favourite song by Queen, you know. The lyrics are perfect. So lovely. And relatable- you know it’s a song that reminds me a lot of us.”

Crowley looks at him with a wide-eyed, pointed gaze. Aziraphale looks back, eyes darting about the room in confusion. 

“You’re staring at me,” Aziraphale accuses. 

“You’re being really thick,” Crowley replies.

“Excuse me?”

“I knew Freddie. Very well.”

“Yes, I’ve understood that much.”

“He wrote a song for me.”

“Right. You had mentioned that.”

“It’s. Uncannily relatable. Talks about old-fashioned lover boys and The Ritz.”

“Yes, I follow so far.”

Crowley sighs and rubs his face. “Aziraphale, when are you going to realise that Freddie Mercury wrote a song for me about you?”

He peers at Aziraphale between his fingers. Aziraphale’s eyes widen comically. And he makes the very business-like decision of putting down his tea to give Crowley his full, undivided attention, turning towards him.

“ _Crowley._ Really?”

“Yes, really, you silly bastard, how did you not put two-and-two together?”

“Because it’s _me_ , what were you expecting,” Aziraphale complains, a little flustered. 

It makes Crowley take pity on him, putting his tea aside too and leaning forward so he’s kneeling beside Aziraphale. “Well. There you are. Now you know. Whole song, dedicated to you. And, um. A few more out there too. Without lyrics, so it’s less obvious.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens and brightens all at once. Something totally indescribable and beautiful. Like the sun behind a fluffy cloud. It’s miraculous. “Oh, Crowley. _No_.”

“Yes, ‘fraid so.”

“Will you tell me-?”

“Nah. Make it more fun to see if you can figure out which songs they are.”

Aziraphale smacks him playfully on the arm. 

“I do have a small confession,” Aziraphale says a little coyly. Eyes looking up at him, then away again. Then back at Crowley. Teasing. 

“Go on,” he says through a smirk, anticipation building. So much so he finds himself leaning in for a kiss before Aziraphale can speak. 

“There may be one or two out there dedicated to you, too.”

“Oh, really?” he murmurs against Aziraphale’s cheek. Hiding his face, because he’s not quite ready to show how happy that makes him. How much Aziraphale completes him. 

“A few,” Aziraphale replies. Then, “A fair few.”

Crowley places the gentlest kiss he can on his cheek. “Do I get any clues?” 

He feels him smile against his skin. “That would ruin the fun.”


	10. Slow Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ineffable Idiots slow dance to some 1940s tunes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read/reblog the original fic prompt [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/188008262110/slow-dancing-as-good-omens-fic-prompt-i-think#notes)

Aziraphale had never really felt lonely before. 

It may come as a surprise to many, but, truly, Aziraphale had never felt lonely. He is an angel who appreciates having time to himself. He is an angel who has chosen to roam Earth on an extended solo holiday for roughly six thousand years, _Eat Pray Love_ style. He is an angel who has set up wards all around his bookshop so every customer is miraculously coerced into leaving the shop after ten minutes of perusing. Up in Heaven, Aziraphale is famous for being a soft, squishy introvert- baffling all the angels, archangels, cherubs and occasional saint. 

Being alone is nice. 

Being alone isn’t the same as being lonely. 

Now, Aziraphale does feel lonely. He stands in the centre of his empty bookshop. A bookshop filled with inanimate, dusty things, yes but no one there other than him. All these books that he’s always valued so highly, loved so dearly- he still does- but somehow, now, they’re all disappointing to him. The shop feels desolate. The dust particles dancing in the air no longer appear beautifully ethereal, only melancholic; the light pouring through the windowed dome up above feels pale and watery; the silence funerary. 

Aziraphale rests a hand on a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , and thinks of what he might be missing. 

A loud voice in his head tells him that he shouldn’t be thinking- why is he even trying to think about this? The answer is right there, sitting inside him and squirming happily, nervously, miserably. He knows what’s missing, what’s always been missing, yet what’s been there this whole time. Waiting for him. Staring at the chessboard expectantly for him to make his move. Handing over briefcases of books and offering lifts home. And it’s only really since the flop that was the apocalypse last week that he’s seen it for what it is. A perfect clarity, a glorious surety that Aziraphale has never, ever experienced till now- about anything.

It doesn’t come to him in a thought. The decision isn’t made through any logical thought process like: I know what to do. No, it comes to him in a surge, too sudden and overwhelming to hold back or consider for too long. Too sudden for his usual cowardice. 

Aziraphale’s feet take him to the phone. He runs his fingers through the numbers, turning the dial, and waits. 

He waits only three seconds.

“ _Alright, Angel.”_

And it’s like that surge disappears as quickly as it came- a burst of air lifting a leaf off the ground, only to let it fall, fluttering to the cold, damp ground of reality. Aziraphale swallows. Feels the moment catch up with him with horrifying speed.

What is he meant to say now?

“H-hello, Crowley,” he says through a forced smile, though Crowley’s not there to see it. “I was. Well, I was just wondering.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Aziraphale’s mouth clamps shut. Now is not the time to falter, he thinks to himself. 

“ _Must be a big thing.”_

“Sorry?” he breathes, broken from his reverie.

“ _Big thing. That you’re wondering about. If you’re calling me and breathing down the phone. I can practically feel the anxiety creeping through the wires.”_

His mouth opens and closes. Then opens again. And he croaks, “Yes. Um, what I wanted to say was. Was this.” He hesitates, but only for a beat too long. He scrunches his eyes closed. Scrunches them so tightly he can see stars. “Music.”

_“Music?”_ Crowley repeats immediately, dumbfounded.

“Yes.”

_“Music.”_

“Yes,” he replies, sounding irritated. He’s irritated at himself more than Crowley. He’s rolling his eyes to himself for being so absurdly flappable. He is always the first to be flapped by the silliest things. 

“ _Right_.” A pause. “ _You. So. Yeah, you’ve got to help me out here, Angel.”_

“What I mean to say- very, very badly, really,” he says, wincing again, “is whether you’d like to come round to the shop. Help me sort through my mess of a record collection that you’ve been nagging me about since 1934.”

Another pause. Then, “ _Oh_.” Pause. Aziraphale’s perfect posture stiffens impossibly further. Ankles together, foot tapping. “ _Yeah. Well, what’s all the fuss about then? You sound stressed. Like a… a stressed person. Not a person asking someone round for a drink and some music.” Pause. “There will be drink, won’t there?_ ”

It’s impossible that he finds himself smiling and relaxing, given how far up his throat his heart is currently climbing. And yet. “Oh yes. Don’t you worry, my dear, there will always be drink pouring.”

“ _Alright. Well, yes. Obviously yes. Even if you’re being weird. You are aware that you’re being weird, aren’t you?_ ”

“Painfully aware, yes,” Aziraphale answers truthfully. Then, quickly, “Shall I uncork the Montepulciano and let it breathe?”

***

They’re on their knees by a teetering stack of vinyl records. The bottle of Montepulciano is finished and there’s another uncorked on the desk beside them. There’s the smell of grapes and dust, a combination that’s become a smell of home to Aziraphale. Made all the more familiar and comforting by Crowley being here, by his side, tearing his beautiful red hair out in annoyance. 

“This one isn’t even in a _sleeve_ ,” Crowley announces, aghast. He waves it in Aziraphale’s face, yellow eyes wide. “When are you going to look after the rest of your things the same way you look after books?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies casually, knowing that’ll just infuriate Crowley further. 

It does- he growls desperately, creating a new neat pile of vinyls without sleeves, next to the piano music pile, to the right of the 1500-1600s classical pile. Aziraphale smiles sweetly at him, and Crowley points an accusatory finger, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“You,” he starts. “You need to get some shelves. Otherwise. Otherwise, I’ll come round here every day to check that you’re putting them somewhere safe.”

_I wouldn’t stop you_ , Aziraphale thinks. _I invited you here because you fill up my life._ He says, “I don’t have room for shelves.”

Crowley’s mouth hangs open. He casts his gaze about the shop, gestures to the room. “It’s a bookshop! Tonnes of shelves! What’s one more pissing shelf going to do? Tear the fabric of the universe? ‘Sides,” he slurs, one class of red too many perhaps, “you could just extend the shop a smidge or two. Miracle it a cheeky inch or two bigger. Encroach on the neighbours’ space, sure they won’t notice.”

“Perhaps.” He thinks about this as Crowley blows the dust off a vinyl record of Mendelssohn. “Although I reckon they would. Humans can be horribly observant.”

Crowley hums knowingly. “Oh, yeah. When they want to be. When they don’t, they’ll turn a blind eye to anything.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley for a second longer. Tears his gaze away and looks down at the Glenn Miller record in his hands. He feels the dog-eared edges, soft cardboard between his fingers. He peers down at the smiling, black and white image of Miller and he’s taken immediately back to 1941. The Blitz, the smell of ash and smoke and the smallest, most precious moment of fingers touching. A feeling of pure adoration that’s never left him- that’s been there since the beginning, waiting. Triggered by one moment. 

And just like before when his feet took him to the phone, Aziraphale’s body is taken by a surge of surety, bravery, knowledge of what he wants- damned if it’s right or wrong. (How freeing it is, to no longer have Heaven watching.) He removes the record from its sleeve and with his free hand, lifts the pin of the gramophone. Crowley stills where he’s knelt by Aziraphale’s feet, and they both listen to the crackle of dust being picked up by the pin. 

Aziraphale stands by the gramophone and closes his eyes. Moonlight Serenade begins to play and he takes a deep, grounding breath. 

“You remember that day,” he says, neither explaining nor opening his eyes to look down at Crowley. 

His response is quiet, and almost immediate. “Yes.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “I believe I owe you a dance.”

“You-”

“Don’t think of it as a ‘thank you’,” he continues. “I know you don’t like those. Perhaps just a dance?”

When he finally opens his eyes, it’s only after another deep breath- the nerves have made him forget how to breathe any other way. The shop is getting dark. The light is grey, there’s the quiet sound of rain hissing against the windows, and the song continues to play. And through the haze of dust and stacks of records he sees Crowley, kneeling at his feet, looking up at him with a look as if he doesn’t trust what he’s hearing. 

Aziraphale therefore adjusts the look on his own face, betraying his nervousness, and smiles. It comes more easily than he thought it would. 

He extends a hand. 

Crowley looks at the hand. Lips parting and mouthing something silently, uncertainly. Then he croaks, “The 40s was a wonderful time for music, if nothing else.”

And he feels Crowley’s hand slip into his. It doesn’t send a jolt of anxiety or excitement, it doesn’t set off fireworks or give him butterflies like he imagined it would. It feels perfectly natural. 

As Crowley stands up to his full height and looks at Aziraphale, he doesn’t let go of his hand. 

The music sounds distant. Each passing moment feels very real. Crowley has frozen. Aziraphale knows all too well how paralysing this uncertainty is- and so he takes Crowley’s other hand and guides it to his waist. He sees Crowley’s eyes flutter and widen, hears his throat click as he swallows, feels his fingers grip harder on Azirphale’s hand. 

“I think,” Aziraphale supplies once he’s show Crowley’s where to put his hand, an abbreviated version of: I think that’s where your hand should go, although I’ve never done this before since I’ve only ever really wanted to do something like this with you, and I’m only just brave enough to do it now, and I hope I’m not misreading things and wrongly assuming you want this too. 

Crowley nods. He nods and nods and nods compulsively, swallows again and fumbles for words. Hand warm in Aziraphale’s, warm on his waist. “Yeah,” Crowley manages. “Yeah. I’d say this is- seems about right.”

And Aziraphale rests his hand carefully- so carefully- on Crowley’s shoulder. He leaves it there and neither of them move. They stare at each other in disbelief that this is happening. They stare in disbelief that it took this long. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to start dancing, to explain what comes next, anything. Crowley’s eyes wide and his brows pinched, lips parted.

“Aziraphale?” he asks weakly.

And then it feels easy, heartbreakingly easy. Easy to smile, easy to be the brave one for once, to let Crowley be vulnerable. Easy to let the thousands of years pour through him and between them, between joined hands. 

“Come here, my dear.”

Aziraphale steps closer. Fingers gripping tighter, frightened of what might happen if the other lets go. Would this moment disappear, as if it never happened at all? 

Aziraphale tilts his head towards the ground and looks up at Crowley through his lashes. A gesture that is sky and self-conscious and happy. And Crowley huffs- a laugh, perhaps, or a sigh, he isn’t sure. He feels his breathe blossom against his skin. 

He closes his eyes. He feels it all. He absorbs all the time spent together, all the time lost. The music brings them absent-mindedly swaying from side to side, and Aziraphale rests his cheek against Crowley’s. He’s warm. When he cracks his eyes open he’s welcomed by an auburn blur. The hand on his waist finds his back, and there’s the rush of a sigh beside Aziraphale’s ear. Then, a forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

The song ends, the gramophone crackling to a stop. They dance in each other’s arms for a little longer, in a shop no longer empty.


	11. Don't Dream It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a nightmare. Aziraphale comforts. <3 
> 
> Original tumblr prompt [here.](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/188366903775/dont-dream-its-over)

The bedside lamp is on. It’s going to take another milennia for Crowley to get used to having a bedside lamp. It’s more common for him to saunter into his dark bedroom and immediately go to sleep- he’ll even put on a pair of pyjamas, if he’s feeling especially luxurious. Bedside lamps don’t usually factor into his routine. Not exactly required, with night-vision. 

But now, his routine has changed significantly. It’s made room for a certain angel, who likes having a bedside lamp on- who likes being able to see what he’s reading, before turning in for the night. 

Crowley buries his face in his pillow, where it’s blissfully dark and the light doesn’t irritate his eyes. It’s not just this that he’s had to accommodate; no, it’s Aziraphale’s very striking lack of sleep, as well. Aziraphale will sit there with a light on for hours, reading beside Crowley, not sleeping until he decides he may as well. Sleep is not something either of them need; it is something that Crowley enjoys significantly more than Aziraphale; it’s something that Aziraphale has decided to “try out”, like a new hobby, since Crowley moved in and miracled a bedroom. 

On top of that, Aziraphale has, in his own words, decided to “do this whole sleeping thing properly”. Crowley has had to make room for hot chocolate or decaffeinated tea before bed. He’s allowed blankets and extra cushions and Egyptian cotton sheets. They have a linen cupboard for all of it. His normal, wallowing sleeping habits have been entirely disregarded. 

He is very much alright with that. 

“Are you awake?”

Crowley lets out a long, sleepy breath. It makes his face hot, where it’s pressed against the pillow. “Mmmph.”

“Is the light keeping you awake? Be honest with me, Crowley.”

“Smufuuhhn.”

“Sorry?”

Eyes still closed, Crowley rolls his head so he can speak, words unmuffled. Relatively. “S’fine.”

“Alright.”

Truthfully, it’s all taking a lot of getting used to. The reason he hasn’t argued with Aziraphale is because he likes having him here. He loves having Aziraphale here, and that makes all the bright lights and sickly sweet bedtime drinks tolerable. (Tolerable. He will never admit to them being nice.) That doesn’t mean that it isn’t sometimes a bit unsettling. There’s still that very large part of himself that’s uncomfortable, _unsettled_ with being happy. After all, it’s natural to feel wary of the unfamiliar. 

He yawns. His jaw unhinges slightly, and he corrects it so as not to inadvertently slip into his snake form. “What you reading,” he mumbles.

Though his eyes are shut, he hears Aziraphale put his book down on the bed sheets. Perhaps looking at the cover. “Brideshead Revisited.”

“Again?”

“I know. I’m an old bore.”

“Mm. We knew that already.”

Aziraphale tuts. “ _Thank_ you.”

Crowley doesn’t smile, but he feels it in his chest. How little has changed, despite the fact that everything has changed. 

He cracks open an eye. 

A bright, yellow light glows on the other side of the bed. It fractures around Aziraphale’s silhouette. Like a halo, but more artificial. No, when Aziraphale shines, he shines brighter and more beautifully than an Ikea lamp. Right now, Aziraphale has returned to his book, legs stretched in front of him under the sheets and reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. Tartan pyjamas with a red trim. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale is comfortable with being comfortable. At least, he’s better at it than him; it suits him better. 

Crowley lies there, one eye looking. Breathing slowly and silently. A little like when he’s a snake, hiding in the grass; he doesn’t want Aziraphale to notice him watching, committing this to memory. Maybe, if Crowley looks longer, watches longer, memorises this, he’ll convince himself that it won’t all disappear.

Inevitably, Aziraphale does look away from his book. Bright eyes looking down at him. He blinks, and his expression turns into pure love. A look of adoration that only an angel could nail so perfectly. 

“Darling boy,” Aziraphale says gently. 

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hand come to stroke his head. He closes both eyes for a moment and feels it. 

“You should sleep,” Aziraphale whispers. His thumb stroking the hair out of his forehead. “Otherwise you’ll be a terrible grouch tomorrow.”

Crowley snorts. “Cheers.”

“You know it’s true,” he chastises quietly, humour in his voice. 

It’s warm. And he’s forgotten that his eyes are closed. He’s forgotten everything except the feel of Aziraphale’s hand on his head. He barely hears Aziraphale when he says: 

_“I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

***

It’s so hot. Hotter than Hell, and he should know.

It’s hot enough that his tears boil his skin and his throat goes dry. His body is evaporating. And he’s pulled further into the bowels of the furnace, where the flames wriggle more freely, like they’re laughing. He’s pulled further in and he watches the shop, this corner of his heart- he watches it crumble, dancing in Hell orange. 

“AZIRAPHALE! AZIRAPHALE FOR GOD- FOR SA- FOR SOMEBODY’S SAKE WHERE ARE-”

Something explodes. Something happens that means he’s suddenly thrown across the room but he doesn’t know how. His mind will only take him as far as _you’re on the floor. You’re looking at the ceiling. You’re alone, now._

It’s so hot. It’s hot, so why is he shivering? Why do the tears keep coming, where are they coming from- everything should have dried up, everything has disappeared- everything inside him has been scooped out and cooked and smashed. The brittle, hollow person that he is. A fragile little glass demon, molded for evil, made empty and aching. Filled with traitorous love for an angel. There’s nothing left inside him now. They’ve taken it all, emptied him again. 

“Somebody killed my best friend…”

It’s so hot. It’s hot and he’s burning and he feels ash and smoke clog up his throat. He kneels amongst the rubble. But that’s not what makes this feels like hell. 

“BASTARDS!”

He could stay here forever. What good would it do to leave? What good would any of it-

“ _Crowley?”_

He can’t see through the fog, the tears, the smoke, the sleep-haze of his mind. He doesn’t need to see.

_“Crowley- Crowley-”_

Like an electric shock- he hears himself gasp- he jumps upright- convulses with deep breaths- his whole body shakes. 

“Crowley- oh, _Crowley_. It’s alright. It’s alright-”

It’s only then that he begins to see what’s around him- the yellow light of the bedside lamp, the sheets tangled at his feet. Aziraphale, sat in front of him. Huge, anxious eyes trying to make contact with his, a weak smile on his lips. 

“You’re here, you’re, you’re, you’re-”

And before Crowley even realises that he’s said this out loud, he’s brought into a tight hug. His own cold, clammy skin pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek; soft eiderdown hair in his vision. 

“I’m here. I’m here, dearest.” 

He feels Aziraphale’s hand on his head, gently stroking through his curls. He feels another pressed firmly against his back. Held there, as if to stop him from drifting away. And that’s what brings him back- that’s what brings Crowley back to the moment, what makes the scorching heat on his skin disappear and the hollow feeling fill again. That’s what brings him back to now, to a world where Aziraphale is alive, and he feels the sob of relief rise out of him. 

His fingers dig into Aziraphale’s back, and he clings on for dear life. 

“You’re here, now,” Aziraphale soothes. “It’s alright now.”

Crowley is still shaking. He’s shaking because there’s that bitter little animal inside of him that doesn’t believe Aziraphale, that’s angry at him for telling him something so stupid, gnashing it’s teeth at the idea of trusting and relaxing and the suggestion of not being on high alert. 

It makes him dizzy, how fast he pulls away from Aziraphale and stands up. 

He backs away from his angel. His angel looks back- calm. Prepared. Hands raised like a lion tamer. Kneeling on the bed, amongst a cloud of bedsheets. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Crowley growls. Backs away a step further. Aziraphale’s serious eyes fixed on him, hands on his tartaned knees. “Don’t. Don’t.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale nods slowly. Expression neutral, quiet. “Alright.”

“You have- you don’t- don’t, jusssssssssst don’t, don’t say it’s alright now, ssssstop saying alright.”

Aziraphale listens. Crowley grips the material of his pyjama top in his hand, as if to tear it off, although he doesn’t. He’s trapped and exposed all at once and he wants to shed his skin like he’s still a snake. 

“You don’t know, sssso you can’t say it’ssss alright because you don’t know, you don’t know what’ll happen or what the next ineffable-f-fucking-plan issssss or, you- you can’t, it could all go wrong any minute and you could disappear again just like lassssst- like lasssssssssssst- like-”

None of this really feels like it’s happening yet. It’s the middle of the night, nothing feels real, he doesn’t trust that Aziraphale’s really there and this feels like the dream. This feels like the moment that will disappear, not the burning bookshop. Oh yes, the burning bookshop feels like it’s been branded inside of him forever. But this-

“Thissss- thissss- for FUCK’S sake. _This_ is transient. It’ssss not. It’s.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice breaks, so he swallows. His expression breaks too, so he corrects it. Body bathed in gold light and shadow. “Crowley.”

“Don’t pander me, don’t say those thingssss.” He hears his own voice break now. Feels his face contort with tears. Feels his hands grip the material of his pyjama top again, clutching like a child. “Don’t lie to me. Nothing’sss alright forever.”

“Things have changed,” Aziraphale replies quietly. 

“NOTHING changes!” Crowley shivers, a whole body shiver. “Six thousand years should have taught you that by now, angel- Heaven, Hell- they’re never gone, it’s never over-”

“Is that what you were dreaming about,” Aziraphale asks, brows raised and eyes sad. God, Crowley’s made him sad. He can’t cope with it. He feels that snarling animal in him falter, whimper. “Is this about Heaven and Hell, Crowley? Because,” Aziraphale shakes his head uselessly. “I don’t know what to do about that. I’m so sorry. I’d do anything to make you feel safe, darling boy. I don’t know how I can do that, not yet, except tell you that I’m here. I’m here.”

“You _died_ , Aziraphale.”

Crowley gasps a shuddering breath. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter and widen in horror and understanding. 

“You died. You discorporated, died- however you want to look at it- they killed you and you were gone and I was alone, and I didn’t- I was going to let the world burn for it, angel. I was going to let all of it burn and I was going to go with it because you weren’t here-”

“Crowley-”

“There’s no point in any of this, being here, there’s no point of wine or music or Bentleys without you and you just disappeared. You died, you let yourself get killed and you bloody well left me and I- I- you were gone, angel, you… You and me. How can I believe this’ll stay?”

Aziraphale’s up from the bed faster than he’s ever seen him move before. And Crowley goes to meet him- throws himself into Aziraphale’s hug the moment he’s on his feet. They stand there in the semi-dark room and hold each other, Crowley’s choking, coughing sobs filling the little room. There’s a half empty cup of hot chocolate on his bedside, and the marshmallows have congealed. Aziraphale’s book is on the floor, pages open. And he feels the damp of Aziraphale tears on his shoulder. 

“My dear. My dear, dear, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice wobbles and strains. Like a bow shuddering along the strings of a violin. “I love you so much. With everything I have.”

Crowley presses his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I love you,” he croaks. 

Crowley clutches. Aziraphale’s hands press tighter against Crowley’s back. 

“There is no way in Heaven, Hell, Limbo, Earth or whatever dimension God may have devised that would stop me from being by your side. If I’m discorporated again-” Aziraphale sighs. “I’d do anything to come back to you. I’d find you no matter what, Crowley, just like last time. Do you understand?”

“I’m sssorry for making you cry,” Crowley whispers.

“Crowley, do you understand? You must know that I’d never leave you, not really. Never.”

“Aziraphale.” 

His angel is so soft, so gentle to hold. He doesn’t fracture or break like Crowley does. He bends and pillows the blow of every painful thing. His arms are around him and he feels held. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “My love. You don’t have to trust me yet-”

He feels sick with guilt. “I do-”

“I _understand_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says. And then he pulls away a little, enough that he can look at Crowley, enough that he can see Aziraphale’s watery blue eyes and blushing pink face. His hands cup Crowley’s face. “I understand you may not believe it yet, but it’s true. No matter what happens, I’m here. I’ll find my way back to you.”

Their foreheads meet. Fresh, hot tears pour down Crowley’s cheeks. 

Aziraphale wipes them away, swallows loudly and takes a deep breath. 

“Come back to bed,” he says gently. 

They both do. Crowley carefully kneels on the bed, lies down on his side and curls up into Aziraphale, head on his arm. He lies there and feels his shaking body still, feels Aziraphale’s lips press against his sweaty forehead and stay there. Not quite a kiss, but something kinder. 

The room is quiet with their slowing breathes, naturally falling in sync. Crowley’s eyes stare at the tartan pattern of Aziraphale’s pyjamas, the buttons close enough in his vision that they blur. 

And then Aziraphale moves, just a little- stretches to his bedside table and takes a book. Crowley doesn’t move to give Aziraphale his arm back. Nor is he going to sleep any time soon. And so he allows him one hand only to open the book and prop it open against his knees.

 _“The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex,”_ Aziraphale reads aloud. _“Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance…”_

Crowley doesn’t question it. He doesn’t see the point in arguing, not when the sound of Aziraphale’s voice fills the hollowness. Aziraphale reads _Sense and Sensibility_ , Crowley’s head on his arm and a hand tracing gently along his arm. They lie like that for hours, Crowley quietly listening, arm slung across Aziraphale’s stomach. 

Eventually, the light begins to wink through the crack in the curtains. It starts with that light blue almost-morning sky, then with the watery yellow of the winter sun. Crowley watches, Aziraphale’s voice filling the silence; he listens until it feels real. As real and as natural as the rising of the sun.


	12. Fresh Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-apocalypse movie night? More likely than you think.
> 
> **Original tumblr prompt[here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/189844453445/a-gift-to-all-my-followers#notes)**

It’s hard to keep track of time when they’re together on a _good_ day. It’s even harder on the best of days. 

The Ritz is busy. The lunch table is inappropriately large for just the two of them. They’re sat right next to each other. Champagne is bitter-sweet on Crowley’s tongue and he could watch Aziraphale for hours, listen to him talking for hours. He measures the way Aziraphale leans towards him with a hand stretched across the table, sharing a story. Eyes bright, typically taut posture unusually relaxed. Entire aura relaxed. The feeling in his own chest, relaxed.

And so it’s harder than usual to keep track of the time. People leave after tea; people arrive for dinner; people leave after dinner. The waiters stare at them from the kitchen doors, waiting for them to ask for the bill, which they don’t. Crowley barely has it in him to glare at them. 

Their knees touch for almost the entire time. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, time has only ever been a construct. However, it has also, always, been bound by celestial responsibilities. Now, they have no such responsibilities. And they are no longer being watched. 

The sky is darkening just a little when they finally leave. Green Park remains busy at-

Crowley checks the time on his phone.

-Greek Park remains busy at five thirty on a Tuesday night. People line up at the bus stop, heading home from work. Tourist stands filled with union jacks litter the streets outside the park. The colonnade of The Ritz shelters them from a light bit of drizzle. 

Crowley slides his hands into his negligible pockets and considers what comes next. Dining at The Ritz has always comes with a time limit, and somewhere to go immediately afterwards. Some sort of agenda. He doesn’t know what that is now. 

He looks over at Aziraphale, who hovers. Hovers and fiddles with his hands. Gaze flitting about as if he’s nervous, smile flickering on and off as if he doesn’t want Crowley to notice. He makes a feeble attempt at smiling again and gestures to the rain with a small nod. “Lovely weather we’re having, eh?” he says. It’s followed by a shaky half-laugh. 

Crowley frowns at him, the bottom half of his face forming a smile. He feels as if he’s watching the Angel of the Eastern gate, introducing himself at Eden. And something about the sudden awkwardness fills him with intrigue- more than that, anticipation. 

He leans back against a column, hands in pockets, and surveys Aziraphale’s anxious flapping.

“Well, go on, then,” Crowley prompts. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Not on my mind, per se,” Aziraphale concedes. His eyes darting up to the roof of the colonnade, to Heaven- a habit that may take some time to kick. “An idea of sorts.”

“You’ve intrigued me,” Crowley drawls. 

“Nothing exciting. Only.” 

The look Aziraphale gives him in the brief moment of hesitation is heart-breaking. It’s filled with hope, and a healthy dollop of apprehension, too. As if Crowley would ever deny him anything. Crowley has experienced these moments of heart-shattering, heart-squashing, heart-pummelling love many times before, and he very much hopes that he’s done an alright job of concealing it from his expression.

He raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale and waits. 

Aziraphale sighs, looking uncomfortable and apparently having no intention of expanding. He expects Crowley to make the move. Unsurprising.

“I could…” Crowley starts. Aziraphale looks at him in hope again. _Christ on a bike I’m a pushover_ , he thinks. “I could. Invite you round to mine for a drink. If… you were thus inclined.”

A great beaming smile. “Oh, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Crowley huffs an almost-laugh. They look at each other. And they both let the weight of that sink in. Slowly, like the rain that’s currently seeping into the stone pavement beyond the Ritz’s colonnade. 

“Right,” he announces quickly, before thoughts can escalate any further. “Off we go, then?”

“Yes, just so. Tip top.”

Crowley conjures an umbrella. It’s not as if anyone would have noticed, he tells himself, though he sees the doorman at the Ritz recoil a little in shock. They share its shelter until Aziraphale miraculously hails a cab. 

***

“Best idea you’ve had all week, angel- and that includes the body swapping nonsense.”

Aziraphale is sat on Crowley’s sofa. He has been handed a glass of wine. He holds it between cupped hands like he plans to take communion. His legs are hidden behind a tartan blanket. (Crowley will never admit that he conjured such a thing long, long ago, just in case something like this might happen. Something like Aziraphale staying for a movie night, or even, staying _for the night_. It had always seemed so unlikely. In fact, the moment he’d created said blanket, Crowley had been so infuriated by his blind hope of ‘having Aziraphale round’ that he’d burned it. 

He’d restored the ashes to its original, tartaned form just a couple of hours later.)

“It seemed like the next logical thing,” Aziraphale explains pensively, brows raised and peering down into his Malbec. “If I had a ‘to do’ list, this is what I would put on it. I haven’t sat down and watched a movie all the way through in such a long time.”

This may well be true, Crowley considers, as he rifles through his DVD collection, knees against polished concrete and painted nails tapping the spine of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Meanwhile, he’s simply marvelling at the fact that they’ve never sat down and watched a movie all the way through together, the two of them, _ever_. They’d always had more important things to be getting on with, like saving the world or performing miracles or negotiating the terms of their Agreement. And now. Now they can-

Now they can what?

He looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is looking at him. The angel’s gaze flicks away instantly, staring back down into his wine. It hurts something in his chest. A nice kind of hurt, like a dash too much wasabi. 

Crowley takes a moment to recover from this. Then- “You. You still haven’t given me any clues. What you in the mood for, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen for the briefest moment as if he’s alarmed by this question, for whatever reason. Then he frowns to himself, purses his lips in thought. Casts his eyes around the room, for inspiration. “Something…”

“If you say nice,” Crowley warns, knees hurting a little on the hard floor. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale retorts. He pauses. He adds, more quietly, “I was going to say fun.”

Crowley groans. Turns to the DVD cabinet.

“I don’t do fun,” he says slowly, emphatically. 

“Alright, well. Something at least a bit light-hearted. I think saving the world rather calls for it, don’t you?”

Crowley tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “It’s a fair point,” he concedes to himself more than Aziraphale. Pouts. “Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not sure I’d want to…”

The reason he doesn’t finish his sentence is because he’s just been, unfortunately, reacquainted with the more mushy end of his DVD collection. He’d forgotten that he has several Audrey Heburn films, as well as a couple of Julia Roberts classics. He glares at them. Hidden amongst the arthouse silent movies, they’re betraying just how soft he is. And Aziraphale’s watching.

The DVD boxes quiver under his stare. 

“How about we start with discussing what you have,” Aziraphale tries, reasonably. “Since we can’t reach a consensus. We don’t even have to watch a DVD if you don’t want-”

“Netflix,” Crowley remembers, standing up abruptly and immediately closing the cabinet. Then, “Netflix! That’s a thing. That’s a thing that we can do.”

“Oh yes- I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says chirpily. 

“Oh, yes, _well done_ , angel.”

Aziraphale glares. 

And so the Netflix loading screen bongs into life, Crowley collapsing onto the sofa beside Aziraphale. The red wine is jostled; Aziraphale tuts. Crowley props his heels on the coffee table. 

“Do you mind. I almost spilled Malbec on my shirt.”

“Lots more choices now,” Crowley ignores him and begins flicking through. “Look, it’s all organised nicely in rows of genre. Love how tidy this is, look. And the search function is so much easier. Have you tried the search function on Amazon Prime, lately? Nightmare.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replies lightly, spinning the wine in his glass like a whirlpool.

“Look, ‘s’got a whole section called ‘light-hearted movies’.” 

“Very helpful.”

They flick through the row. They go through all of them without choosing, and end up at the beginning of the loop again. Crowley growls and hangs his head off the back of the sofa.

“Oh, pass it here,” Aziraphale sighs, putting down his wine with a decisive _clink_ and picking up the remote. He holds it with one hand and presses the directional buttons with his other hand, as if it’s far more complicated and delicate a process than it actually is. Like an octogenarian trying to use an iPhone. 

“How about this lovely looking Christmas film.“

“N- no. Anything but that. It’s October. And more importantly, no.”

“It looks ever so sweet, though. How lovely and romantic-”

“ _We are not watching The Christmas fucking-well Prince._ ”

He’d had a hand in inspiring that, and he’s too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. His evil deeds really are shit. 

“No need to snap,” Aziraphale mutters. 

“If you’re determined to watch something romantic and seasonal, I will accept _The Holiday._ If I must. Jack Black makes it bearable.”

Aziraphale lets the screen rest on the thumbnail of the movie. Then, quite thoughtfully, he says: “I like Kate Winslet. She seems like a nice woman.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s. OK. I’m sure she is, angel.”

In all honesty, the idea of watching a rom-com with Aziraphale is border-line torture. It’s not quite as bad as waterboarding, but it’s close. More on the same level as those nightmares you get where you have to do a maths exam in your underwear, on stage, and all of your exes and crushes point and laugh at you. Not only are rom-coms pretty hit and miss- some influenced by Heaven, some by Hell, you never know what you’re going to get- they’re also a fantastic way of making Crowley feel incredibly exposed. Incredibly hot in the face from second-hand embarrassment. Incredibly aware that he’s meant to be sneering and heckling, when he’s just trying to concentrate on holding himself together. Stop the feelings from spurting out of his heart like water in a dam: feelings that he thinks are, embarrassingly, rather a lot like _longing_.

And yet, because it is Crowley, and this is what Crowley does, he lets Aziraphale select the movie and they watch _The Holiday_. They remark on the general cheesiness, the (at times) witty dialogue. The staggering amount of disbelief that has to be suspended for the plot to work. How nice Jude Law looks in glasses. 

Crowley’s only sort of watching. He’s concentrating on Aziraphale. Not outright staring at him (although he does often do that, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed and told Crowley to sod off). Rather, letting his brain tick over the knowledge that he is right beside him. Too much of his daft, devil mind is unable to ignore the fact that Aziraphale is there. 

Sometimes, it sends unhelpful thoughts his way. Like, _you could touch his hand_. Or, _imagine feeding him popcorn- wouldn’t that be interesting._ Or simply, _there he is. He’s here. He’s with you. He’s chosen this._

About half-way through the film, Aziraphale starts with those sad sighing sounds, making woebegone eyes at the television- which tells Crowley that he’s getting peckish but doesn’t want to bother Crowley with it. So, Crowley casually announces that he’s heard there’s a good new Chinese restaurant around the corner, and Aziraphale brightens up again immediately. And they have to pause the film to choose what to eat, because Crowley reckons he might actually order something for himself this time, and Aziraphale _um_ s and _ah_ s about these things for hours anyway. And once they’ve ordered- over the app, thank God for avoiding human interaction- the food arrives, quite miraculously, three minutes later. 

And once the food is gone, the film is almost finished. And Netflix seems to have decided what they should watch next, because it puts on the first episode of _The Crown_ without asking them. Which they watch, although Crowley’s not really watching. And Aziraphale is complaining about the inaccuracies. 

And at some point they end up sitting very close.

No. That makes it sound as if Crowley has no idea how they ended up that close. He knows exactly when this happened, because he hasn’t taken a breath since. 

It happened like this.

They’re halfway through the first episode of _The Crown_ , and Aziraphale has returned from the kitchen with a new bottle of red- a Pinot, this time- and he pours for both him and Crowley. Aziraphale has been sat on his own side of the sofa, and Crowley has been on his, draping his arms and legs wherever he sees fit. Now, as Aziraphale resettles on the sofa, he sits right beside him. The way Crowley is angled, his legs dangling off the arm of the sofa, means that he’s leaning in Aziraphale’s direction. Very obviously. 

So he’s using all his (very little) core strength to keep himself sitting upright enough not to fall into his lap. Even if it would be very nice to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s lap. And even if he’d really like to relax a little bit and lean his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. 

And for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t be an issue for a couple of six thousand year old beings to sit side-by-side on a sofa, and yet, here’s Crowley, having a crisis about it. It’s not as if he thought twice about pinning him against a wall. 

Although he probably should have. That was a lot.

His eyes follow the way Aziraphale’s legs stretch in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. A little slouched on the sofa, shoes off. It’s about as relaxed as Crowley’s ever seen him. 

“Why do you think they decided to make this TV series now, when the Queen is still alive,” Aziraphale remarks. It almost makes Crowley jump a little, so deep in thought that he’d forgotten time hadn’t stopped entirely.

“Whassat?”

“Well, why do you think they’ve made the series now? It seems a bit-”

“Right,” Crowley says brain finally processing the question. “No- dunno, angel.”

They both go quiet. Crowley’s hand grips the back of the sofa. The fear that he’s going to slip and lean against Aziraphale is too real. As nice as it would be-

Perfect. Miraculous. Wonderfully human. 

-It would also be mortifying. 

He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow. Precise and even, like he’s measuring out ingredients for a recipe. It makes Crowley’s mouth go dry with painful self-awareness.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale starts quietly, “when you and I bumped into each other in Camden Town?”

He takes a few seconds to pretend to think about this. “Yeah, ‘f course. Nineteen seventy-seven. What made you think of that?”

Aziraphale shifts a little, looking at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t look back, watches the screen. If he turns towards Aziraphale, they’ll be-

“You were wearing that awful t-shirt.”

That makes him laugh. A tipping-the-head-back laugh. “Oh yeah- my God Save the Queen t-shirt. Sex Pistols. Yeah, those were the days. Don’t knock ‘em, they were a good band.”

“I’m sure they were.”

“Don’t use that voice, they were. Anarchic music at its finest.”

“I believe you, but bebop is still a little too baffling for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know where it comes from- he thought he knew himself quite well at this point, but apparently not well enough. He feels something take over from out of nowhere. Rather, feels something erase everything else- a whiteboard rubber cleaning all the bullshit away. 

And now he’s turned to Aziraphale without the babbling voice of anxiety in his head. 

“It’s punk music, not bebop. And. I reckon you’d like it.” His voice is a murmur and his eyes are looking at Aziraphale’s lips. Thank Christ for sunglasses. 

When he looks back up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he’s watching Crowley. Looking for something. 

He feels his lips part, hears himself take a breath through his mouth. 

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asks weakly. A small quirk in one eyebrow. 

“Y-” Fucking Hell. His throat’s all dry and he’s forgotten what words are. And now Aziraphale is definitely looking at his mouth. _Fuck fuck fuck fu-_ “Yeah. You’re a rebel now, after all. Sort of. Breaking all those rules.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies in a whisper. Then, regaining his voice, “I suppose that’s true.”

“S- uh- mm- w- some of the songs, anyway, not all of them. You’d uh- h- some of them are a bit explicit than others and you’d probably not. Not get on with those ones.”

“Crowley…?”

That’s all it takes. Thousands of years of keeping his feelings to himself and taking it slow, and all it takes is that little inflection in Aziraphale’s hushed voice. That hesitant request, draped over the sound of his name. Crowley leans in and presses his lips gently against Aziraphale’s. 

There’s that horrible moment when it stops, and everything else seems to stop, too. The what next? hangs in the air and Aziraphale stutters a shaky breath against Crowley’s skin. 

“Too fast?” is what Crowley ends up asking. Just to break the pause. 

And then the most dazzling, drunken smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. Brows knit together. An expression that looks a lot like _“To the world.”_

“No,” he half laughs, shaking his head infinitesimally. “For once, no. We… we saved the world, I rather think we deserve this.”

Something in Crowley relaxes, unhinges, collapses. It lets all the feelings free and they flood him till he swears he almost goes blind.

And that is how they both end up falling asleep on the sofa, still wearing the days’ clothes and kicking off a tartaned blanket. Wrapped up in each other- starting this new era as they mean to continue.

***

Crowley wakes up and finds his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He’s splayed on top of him, arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. He feels Aziraphale’s hand, warm between his shoulder blades. 

“What would you like to do today?” Aziraphale asks with a smile in his voice. 

That is how it starts. They think of the things they were too scared to do together, the things that they never found the time to do together, the things they always liked to do together. 

They go for a walk through Hampstead Heath, just as the weather’s beginning to turn- their breathes steaming in front of their faces as they walk. They haven’t been here since 1815. They both try to avoid the muddy parts and fail spectacularly. They make fun of each other for the mess they’ve made of their shoes. They begin by hooking their fingers together, until they’re brave enough to hold hands completely. 

They go home and cook together. It goes disastrously. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning, when they wake up on Crowley’s sofa again. 

They go to some hipster bar in East London- Tobacco Docks, it’s called. They find that there’s good food, _lots_ of good booze and an ice rink- which Crowley absolutely point-blank refuses to go on until Aziraphale makes that wide-eyed, pleading face. They have a tipsy and very clumsy skate around the rink before returning to their drinks. Crowley’s better at wine than ice rinks. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks, when they’ve woken up in Crowley’s bed. His white hair against his white sheets. A new part of the landscape of his room.

They end up doing very little. They read together on the sofa and make tea. Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the best music ever created- disco, of course. They dance in the living room in bare feet and laugh till they can’t see through the tears. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks the next. 

They’ve saved the world, and that still seems surreal. But there’s waking up on Crowley’s sofa after a movie marathon, too. A dinner date, or a night in. 

And that feels perfectly real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr at justkeeptrekkin!! <3


	13. Brief Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing selene-yoshi-chan on tumblr!

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing. 

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived. 

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous. 

“Morning, angel.”  
  
She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”  
  
“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”  
  
Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips. 

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting. 

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense. 

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”  
  
“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says. 

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic. 

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots. 

“Crowley.”  
  
“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement. 

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”  
  
Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge. 

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly. 

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did- 

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses. 

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won't just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can't have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”  
  
Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence. 

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don't go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment. 

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be. 

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse. 

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I've only been as far as Hastings.”  
  
Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”  
  
“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”  
  
There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”  
  
Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile. 

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days. 

“Are you happy?”  
  
She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”  
  
_Constantly_ , Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore. 

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this. 

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”  
  
Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s. 

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans. 

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again. 

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley. 

***  
  
The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her. 

The wind tries to push her back down the hill. 

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it. 

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait _for_. 

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks,. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s _her_ that she’s abandoning, not Devil's Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”  
  
And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station. 

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”  
  
She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley's eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train. 

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away. 

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform. 

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe. 

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on. 

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift. 

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it. 

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”  
  
Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily.

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”  
  
“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes. 

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears. 

“I made the right decision,” she whispers. 

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been. 

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?  
  
Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip. 

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat. 

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain. 

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass. 

The train begins to pull away from the platform. 

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform. 

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet. 

“Aziraphale!”  
  
That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam. 

“Crowley?”  
  
And then again- desperation, relief- “ _Aziraphale_.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted. 

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.  
  
“You got off the train,” Crowley says. 

“You came back,” Aziraphale says. 

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise. 

_Next time we kiss,_ Aziraphale thinks, _I won’t be so afraid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE give selene-yoshi-chan a follow and a big thank you. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at justkeeptrekkin if you want to submit a prompt :)


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